Bad Blood
by Exocet
Summary: Everything was going fine for Hugh and Cadfael, until King Stephen sent them on a mission. Then they found themselves with more problems than they cared for, and this time the stakes were higher than ever before. Very slightly AU.
1. The Mission

**Author's note :** There aren't many Cadfael fanfics on the web, so I thought I would have to write my own. This is the result, and I hope you like it. Huge thanks to Kezya for beta-reading this story, and so much more. Her encouragements helped me keep going, and without her this story would not be half what it is.

Please remember that, although this fanfic was corrected very carefully, mistakes might remain. If you find one, please let me know and I will correct it.

**Title :** Bad Blood

**Main characters :** Cadfael, Hugh Beringar

**Rating :** I'm not familiar with these, so I'll just say the story is a pretty safe read except if the mention of death and blood bothers you.

**Disclaimer :** Nothing's mine. I don't even lay a claim on original characters. Wish I could keep Hugh Beringar, though.

**Historical accuracy :** I tried to be consistent with history, as much as possible. I'm not an expert though, so there might be mistakes. Same goes for geography. I used a map of England, but for various reasons a few geographical inaccuracies remain.

**Spoilers :** A few about Olivier and One Corpse Too Many.

**Summary :** Everything was going fine for Hugh and Cadfael, until King Stephen sent them on a mission. Then they found themselves with more problems than they cared for. Very slightly AU.

**Feedback :** Yes please !

* * *

It was only by chance that Cadfael came back from visiting Brother Mark at the very moment Hugh Beringar dismounted in the courtyard of the abbey. The deputy sheriff was followed by another man, in his early thirties, with longish black hair, and taller than Hugh - but that was not very surprising, since Hugh was rather short. Cadfael rushed to greet his friend, and he nodded politely to the other man, although there was a hint of wariness in his eyes. These were troubled times, after all, and having been in the outer world for decades before he had taken the cowl, Cadfael had learnt not to trust too easily. 

"Brother Cadfael, what a coincidence you're here, when you are the one I wanted to talk to!" Beringar exclaimed.

"Really?" Cadfael glanced at him curiously; for some reason, he had a feeling Hugh was not there just for some friendly gossip.

"Well, you and the Father Abbot," his friend amended. "And - I forget my manners. This is Lord Richard Willoughby, and what he has to say concerns you too. Lord Richard, Brother Cadfael, of whom you've heard a great deal, it seems."

The monk and the lord nodded politely to each other, Cadfael betraying none of his inner thoughts, although he was very much curious as to why a man of such high breeding would be interested in him, who had no fortune, no land, and certainly no influence.

"In that case," Cadfael said, "if you'll let Brother Aymeric take care of your horses, I will take you to the Father Abbot."

He took the lead, and they followed him inside the thick walls of the abbey. Five minutes later, they found themselves in front of the wooden door that led to Father Radulfus' quarters, and Cadfael knocked hard. A muffled voice invited them inside, and the monk opened the door. He let Hugh and Lord Richard go in first, then entered, careful to close the door tightly shut behind him. Obviously, whatever business brought Lord Willoughby there was not for all to hear, and in an abbey closed to the outer world, many brothers were a bit too prone to gossiping.

Father Abbot was a very tall man, with greying black hair and deep, dark eyes that seemed to see more than most men could fathom. Having known him for quite some time now, Cadfael knew that Radulfus was a wise man, quick to listen and slow to punish, although he could also be ruthless when he felt it was needed. His hand was stronger than that of the previous abbot, and he would not hear nonsense. All in all, his coming to Shrewsbury had been a blessing. Especially when the only alternative would have been Prior Robert - Cadfael shuddered at the very thought.

"My lord Beringar," Radulfus nodded formally in greetings, while he kept a curious eye on the other man.

Although the two men were the two most powerful in Shrewsbury - save for Sheriff Prestcote, Hugh being only deputy sheriff - and they met regularly, but were not very close. They did respect each other, however, and had always kept most courteous relations.

"Father Abbot," Hugh answered politely. "This is Lord Richard Willoughby, who's come here a long way to bring orders from the King."

"The King?" Radulfus raised a bushy eyebrow in understandable surprise.

"Allow me to explain, Father Abbot," Willoughby intervened, and Radulfus nodded. "I am here as a messenger from King Stephen, who wants to entrust Brother Cadfael with a mission."

"A mission ? But... why me ?" Cadfael asked in dismay, so surprised that he spoke before he realized he should have waited for the Abbot to answer. Radulfus cast him a scolding glance, but did not comment, to the monk's relief. Willoughby watched them, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Why Brother Cadfael, indeed?" the Abbot asked dryly.

"Don't underestimate the King's memory," Richard replied with amusement. "When he came here, he was impressed with Brother Cadfael's - and Master Beringar's - actions to solve the enigma of the one corpse too many. That's why he thought of you on this occasion."

"You still haven't told us what the mission is," Hugh commented.

Willoughby nodded, unfazed. "Yes, I'm getting to that. We have learnt that Empress Maud is currently in Gloucester, with her court, and many of her most faithful lieutenants and barons - including the Earl of Gloucester, of course. The King thinks she's preparing something, probably an assault on a great scale. Only, he has his hands full with the betrayal of these two lords of the north, and it would be very annoying if Maud chose this moment to attack."

Richard seemed to have a talent for euphemisms.

"That's why he wants to send two men to Gloucester, to make a few enquiries, and try... discreetly... to find out what it is Maud has in mind."

"In one word, you want us to become spies," Cadfael said wryly. The monk had always been one to call things by their name.

"That's a way of putting it, yes," Willoughby admitted. "You understand, naturally, that Stephen cannot send a man the Empress would recognize too easily, so that rules out most of his court ; but he cannot entrust just anyone with such a mission either. He needs someone with wits. That's you."

"I see," Radulfus murmured.

"To you, my lord Beringar, the King sent orders ; to _you_, Father Abbot, he sent a request to lend us your monk for the next two months or so."

Cadfael looked thoughtfully at the Abbot, fully understanding the difference; Beringar, as a vassal of the King, was not given any choice in the matter, unlike the Abbot. Radulfus could not well refuse such a request, but the King had been diplomatic enough to pretend he was asking a favor, rather than demanding. Radulfus did not look very happy about it, and he pursed his lips, but when he spoke, there was resignation in the Abbot's voice.

"Well, what do you say, my son?" he asked Cadfael. "After all, you should have a say in this."

Surprised that his opinion should be sought, the monk had to give it some thought. On the one hand, he was rather happy in the abbey, living the life he had chosen, sheltered from the outer world. Then again, he did sometimes miss the exhilaration, the adventure, of his more youthful days. But he had never taken sides in the civil war that had wreaked havoc in England for years now, and he did not like the idea.

"I am not a vassal of the King, and my vows keep me in this abbey," he said.

"But Shrewsbury surrendered to the King," Willoughby pointed out. "You live under the King's rule, as much as with his protection, which makes you enemies of the Empress. And King Stephen has asked very little of the abbey."

The message was obvious; he might be asking a great deal more, if his demands were not met. Radulfus' scowl deepened at this way of doing things, very close to blackmail.

"I won't order Brother Cadfael to go," the abbot said dryly. "If he does, it will be his choice only."

But there was not much choice, and they all knew it. The abbey of Shrewsbury was Cadfael's home, and it had been for nearly two decades. He could not, would not let it undergo the King's wrath if he could help it. Even if it meant doing Stephen's bidding.

"I'll go," he sighed. "I couldn't very well leave Hugh on his own, now, could I?" Cadfael refrained from snorting, but only because Father Abbot was present, and he pretended he did not see the deputy sheriff's mock scowl.

"Good!" Richard said with a smile. "Well, no specific orders - the King said he trusted your wits and that you'd do better if you followed your own guidelines - just find out what is going on in Maud's court, if there are military plans, steal them, and bring the informations back to the King's court. Ah - there's one thing, though."

"What?" Cadfael and Hugh asked at the same time, before sharing a smile. Willoughby looked rather amused at their synchronization.

"There's a servant of the Empress you should be wary of; she exposed two of King Stephen's, uh... envoys, and we are not even sure what happened to them. Possibly prisoners, or dead. At any rate, this lady is dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Hugh repeated in disbelief.

Willoughby cast him a wry look. "Oh, yes, that's what I thought as well, when I first heard about her; but the second man she exposed was a friend, and I know for a fact he was no fool. Anyway, her name is Cassilda Grayson. We do not know where she is right now, but she's likely to be at the Empress' court. Well. You should leave as soon as you can - there's no telling how long the Empress will wait before she makes her move, and you must find out about it with enough time left, so the King is forewarned and can take action."

"We shall leave tomorrow morning then," Hugh said. "If that's all right with you, Brother Cadfael?"

"Oh - yes, yes. I'll just have to give Brother Oswin instructions for the tending of a few patients. I'll be ready by tomorrow."

"Then I'll come to fetch you after Prime," the deputy sheriff offered. "And I'll bring a horse, you'll need it for such a long way."

"All right," Cadfael nodded.

Father Radulfus glanced at Richard. "What about you, my lord Willoughby? Do you wish to spend the night here? I can have a room prepared for you, and your horse taken care of."

"Yes, I would appreciate that," Willoughby nodded. "I'll leave soon as well - I must get back to the King's court - but I can take a few days to rest after this ride."

* * *

As he had promised, Hugh came right after Prime, and found Cadfael waiting for him with a small bundle. The monk had taken whatever he needed, which was not much; spare clothes, some money the Abbot had given him, a few of his remedies. He fastened the bundle to the saddle of the horse his friend had brought for him, and mounted the chestnut mare with satisfaction. He rarely had the occasion to ride on horseback now, as he used his feet or a mule most of the time, and since he was being forced to travel while winter was not far and the weather already quite cold, he might as much get this small compensation. Cadfael noticed without surprise that Hugh was riding his favourite horse, a nasty grey stallion that would obey no one but his master. 

They left in the direction of the south, and thus their travel began. It had snowed recently, and the ground was covered with a thin layer of snow, its whiteness marred by the hoofprints of their horses as they rode ahead. The air was bitingly cold, and Cadfael could not help but shiver slightly in his frock. However, the ride should be enough to warm him up soon.

"You can confess now," Hugh said teasingly. "You're glad to take part in this escapade, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?" Cadfael asked innocently.

"You didn't protest nearly as much as I would have expected, seeing how you have to leave your warm and quiet abbey to venture in the cold, outer world..."

"Who would argue with an order from the King?"

"As I said. A most convenient explanation, is it not? Besides, I never got the impression you were such a... ah... devoted servant of the King..."

Cadfael shook his head, then laughed. "All right, maybe I'm not as sorry as I ought to be. Then again, others are not as sorry as they ought to be, either. Did you see Prior Robert and Brother Jerome's faces as I was leaving?"

"Tell me about it! You didn't see my sergeant's grin! Your fellow monks are very uncharitably happy to be rid of you, I suppose. Well, Warden is very humanly happy to keep the position of Deputy Sheriff while I'm away. Why do I feel like we are not going to be missed a lot?"

"I know at least two people who will be looking forward to your return..." Cadfael commented, with a teasing gleam in his sparkling blue eyes.

"Who are you... ah, Aline and Giles, you mean. Yes, probably, although sometimes I feel like Aline is happy to have some time just for herself. I'm not always an easy husband to deal with..."

The confession made Cadfael laugh. "If you wanted an absolution, you should have told that to a priest."

After that, they were silent for a while, until Hugh spoke again. "Pity we aren't going east. We could have stopped at Maesbury."

"That wouldn't have been very discreet," Cadfael commented. "Maybe your face isn't very well known, but your name is. Everybody knows that Hugh Beringar of Maesbury is a loyal supporter of King Stephen. Actually, I think it would be best if you didn't use that name at all."

"I tend to agree," Hugh admitted. "I'll find another name to use. John Smith, for instance."

Cadfael sniggered. "My dear Hugh, you're the worst spy I've ever laid eyes on."

"How many spies have you laid your eyes on?" the deputy sheriff retorted.

The monk grimaced, as he had been caught out. "Well, never mind that, no one will believe that John Smith is your name."

"In that case, I sympathise with everyone who is really called John Smith," Hugh grinned. "I'll be, uh... Halsey Roberts, how does that sound ? It's common enough, yet believable."

"Yes, that should do."

"Shouldn't you change your name as well ?" Beringar suggested. "Cadfael isn't so very common a name. Even less so if used by a Benedictine monk."

"I suppose so," Cadfael said without too much enthusiasm. "I shall be Brother Rhys. That is a very common name, in Wales."

"It should do," Hugh nodded.

They kept riding for the whole day, stopping only for a few minutes around midday to quickly eat some bread and meat, and to let the horses drink at a river they had just crossed. By sunset, they reached a small village, called Tinesbury, which was on the border of Hugh's jurisdiction, and Cadfael glanced at his friend.

"What do you say we stop here for the night?" he suggested. "It wouldn't be prudent to travel by night, through a land we don't know very well."

"My opinion exactly," Hugh nodded. "We can knock at the closest house, and whoever lives there won't refuse us a shelter for the night and something warm to eat in exchange for a few coins."

They walked toward the nearest building, a small house with white walls and a wooden door, and Hugh knocked while Cadfael held the horses. Behind the door, there was the sound of footsteps, then it opened and revealed a small boy with straw-like hair and a mistrustful gaze. The boy was possibly seven or eight years old. The deputy sheriff smiled at him - he liked children.

"Greetings, lad," he said. "Is your father here ?"

The boy nodded, and called above his shoulder for the head of the family. Soon enough, a man came to stand behind the child, obviously his father, for he had the same thick blond hair and sharp features. He appeared to be a farmer, probably a free man, for his clothes were of better quality than a serf's would be, and he eyed the two unexpected visitors with the same distrust as his son had. It was not surprising; such a small village, at the border of two shires, was not well protected, and an easy prey for bandits. Yet, Hugh definitely did not look like a thief of any kind - a thief would not wear a sword and such fine clothes, not to mention have such a horse; and Cadfael's monk habits proved he was harmless. Nevertheless, the man remained prudent.

"Greetings, m'lord. I am Jehan, and this is my son, Thomas. How may I be of service?"

"Jehan," Hugh nodded politely, which seemed to confuse the farmer even more. He probably was not used to lords being so civil with him - then again, he probably did not often meet with any lords at all. "I am H... Halsey Roberts, and this is Brother Rhys."

Cadfael noted with relief that Hugh had remembered his assumed name, even though he had had a moment of hesitation before introducing himself. Most likely, Jehan had not noticed, or would not pay attention.

"As it is nightfall, we hoped you would allow us to spend the night here," Cadfael added.

"Oh - Of course, Brother!" Jehan exclaimed at once, seemingly torn between awe and pride. The whole village would probably be talking about it all winter - a lord and a monk who had spent the night at the farmer's house! It would certainly do wonders for Jehan's prestige, Cadfael thought leniently.

The farmer opened his door wide, while calling for the rest of the family.

"My eldest son will take care of your horses, Brother, m'lord. Please enter - it is an honour to have you here."

The two friends followed the man inside, where a fire was crackling, and he introduced them to his wife, his mother, his daughter and his two other sons. The two sons focused their attention mostly on Hugh - in their opinion, a monk was probably just plain boring - much to Beringar's annoyance. Granted, he liked children, but these two were pestering a bit too much for his liking. Fortunately, their father discreetly ushered them to bed before Hugh's patience ran too low.

The most difficult for Cadfael was to remember to use Hugh's false name. Fortunately, both given names started with the same letter, otherwise he might have blundered more than once. Hugh himself just avoided using Cadfael's name as much as possible. However, all in all the supper was rather pleasant. At first the peasants had kept a stiff silence, but after Cadfael had said a few jokes, they eased up, and by the end of the meal they were speaking as though their guests were members of the household.

Stiff and sore after a whole day on horseback, neither Cadfael nor Hugh were willing to stay up very late, especially since they had to get up at dawn to resume their travel. Their host offered them the best beds of the house, in spite of Cadfael's half-hearted protests. Yet the prospect of a good bed for the night was too tempting for the monk to remain adamant very long, and much to Hugh's amusement, he relented quickly enough. Both friends would have to sleep in the same room and to share the one bed, but it was not unusual when travelling. They just took the time to wash their hands and faces, before going to bed, and they were so tired that neither could tell for certain whether the other snored or not.

Cadfael woke up with a start around Lauds time, used as he was to the abbey's tight schedule, and he made a point of chanting a few psalms in his head, before he drifted back to sleep. He woke again, right before Prime, and this time he shook Hugh awake. His friend groaned, still half-asleep, and it took him a few minutes to become totally aware.

"You sleep soundly, I see," Cadfael teased him.

"Well, not everyone gets up every night at impossible hours for Matins," Hugh retorted good-humouredly. "I could never be a monk, if only for that reason."

"A convenient excuse, is it not?" the monk said wickedly, repeating almost word for word what Hugh had told him the previous day. "Staying up didn't seem to bother you when tracking down murderers and the like."

"It's not the same thing. Staying up late, or not going to bed at all, that I can do. But getting up and then going back to bed? Torture."

"Soft soul," Cadfael chuckled. "Come on, let's get something to eat and resume our journey. I have a feeling that by the end of the trip, I will hate the very idea of horse-riding," he added with a mock shiver.

"Your old age catching up?" Hugh suggested, laughter underlaying his voice, and he fled the room quickly to avoid Cadfael's retaliation.

Jehan and his family were already up as well, and about to eat breakfast. Cadfael and Hugh joined them, eating with pleasure the black bread and porridge they were offered, along with some beer, unexpectedly nice for such a remote village. As the monk and the deputy sheriff rose from the table, Jehan's wife gave them a small bag.

"I thought you might like something to eat for midday," she said as an explanation.

"Why, thank you for your thoughtfulness!" Cadfael said as he took the bag.

"We appreciated your hospitality," said Hugh. "Please let me pay you back in whatever way I can." He gave Jehan a few coins, and the farmer accepted them without a fuss.

"Thank you, m'lord," he said simply. "These will come in handy during the winter."

Then he ordered his eldest son to have the guests' horses ready, and a moment later, the two friends were on the road again. The snow had melted during the night, and the sun shone shyly, although the day was not much warmer than the previous one.

They travelled thus for several days, stopping at inns, when there were any, or else asking for the townspeople's hospitality. Hugh knew to be generous, and they never had trouble finding lodgings. However, the weather did not improve much, and after all these days travelling, Cadfael was beginning to get really stiff and sore, although he did his best to hide it. He would not give Hugh the occasion to tease him once again about his "old age". After all, he was only in his late fifties - he had at least twenty years more, he thought optimistically. Besides, Hugh himself looked sore and tired as well.

The fourth day of their ride was even colder, and ominous black clouds kept hovering above the two travellers' heads. The incoming storm would likely break on them before the evening, but they were getting very close to Worcester, and there they could stop at the local abbey, Cadfael thought with satisfaction. Even the idea that he would have to rise at Matins and Lauds instead of staying in bed as he had done lately did not deter him.

Hugh was as anxious as Cadfael to reach Worcester this evening, so by mutual consent they kept riding longer than they usually would have. As a result, they were still on the roads when the night fell. They were both aware that riding in the dark might be dangerous, but there was little they could do, apart from carrying on to Worcester; the last village they had passed was two hours away, and probably farther than Worcester itself.

They had fallen silent a while ago, and just rode together, both exhausted, when Cadfael straightened oin his saddle, watchful. He had heard something, unless his ears were playing tricks on him.

"Can you hear anything, Hugh?" he asked under his breath.

"What? No, nothing," Beringar replied, glancing dubiously at his friend.

"I didn't dream that. Please, Hugh! I'm not quite _that _old yet..."

Cadfael broke off as he heard the same sound again, like a muffled scream. He shared a glance with Hugh, who this time had heard the sound as well.

"In this direction," he said, pointing to the south-east. "Further on the road, I'd say."

"Let's go, quickly! But silently, for God's sake."

They pushed their horses forward. The road's surface was hard-packed, and the hooves of the mare and the stallion made little sound. A few seconds were enough for them to reach the corner of the path, and there they saw four horses, riderless. On the ground, there was the corpse of a man, probably a traveller, whose two companions were still standing and facing several men, most likely thugs, armed with swords. A woman with long black hair stood behind the two travellers, who seemed to be protecting her. She was holding a dagger, obviously determined to defend herself. But there were five of the bandits, against two men and a woman.

Cadfael and Hugh did not need to consult each other to know what to do; they jumped to the ground and rushed at the ruffians. Hugh unsheathed his sword, while Cadfael drew the dagger he had hidden under his clothes; the attack took the bandits completely by surprise, and before they had time to recover, the deputy sheriff and the monk went into action. Their arrival heartened the two other travellers, and the fight began.

With only a dagger at his disposal, Cadfael found himself in difficulty, and he was forced to step back as his opponent swung his sword violently. The ruffian had no skill whatsoever in swordsmanship, but his weapon gave him a longer reach than Cadfael's, and the monk had to shrink back again and again, until he eventually tripped over the body of the dead man, and fell to the ground. With a victorious grin, the bandit raised his heavy sword above his head, and Cadfael heard Hugh's desperate shout as he saw his foe about to strike.


	2. To Gloucester

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Having fought in a crusade, Cadfael had learnt more than swordplay; he had learnt to survive, to use every opportunity he had and to react quickly in every situation. On this occasion, it saved his life. The monk's fingers touched the cold steel of the dead man's sword, and without even thinking, he snatched the weapon from the dead man's hand, using it to fend off the blow his opponent tried to land on him. But, thrown off balance, the ruffian fell forward, unable to catch himself, right on the sword Cadfael was holding. The blade pierced his belly and blood spouted from the wound, drenching the monk's hands as the bandit fell to his knees, a look of disbelief etched on his face. The monk glanced at him grimly, as he got back to his feet. Even when it was needed, he did not like to give death to a human being and he could not help but feel guilty as he saw his victim writhe in pain on the ground.

There was blood everywhere, its dark red marring the purity of the snow, and slightly horrified by what he had done unwillingly, Cadfael tried to stop the bleeding; but it was too late, and he saw in the bandit's eyes the dullness that announced a hovering death. Feeling nauseous, Cadfael averted his eyes. He had hoped he would never again have to kill. Was it wishful thinking ?

Someone came to kneel beside him and, raising his eyes, the monk saw the woman he had noticed previously. Dagger in hand, she looked coldly at the fallen bandit, who was still alive, and before Cadfael had time to protest she finished him off. A bit shocked, the monk opened his mouth then closed it, finding nothing to say.

Meanwhile, the two travellers and Hugh had fought the other ruffians off, and they fled, leaving three of their own on the ground, dead or injured. When it became obvious that there was no longer any danger, the two men dropped their swords with relief, and the woman sheathed her dagger. She seemed curiously unfazed by the whole ordeal, and she glanced coldly at the corpses on the ground, without so much as a blush.

"Thank you!" one of the men said heartily. He wore a luxurious red cloak, and a tunic lined with velvet and fur. A nobleman, most probably. "You arrived just at the right moment! Without you, we might very well be dead."

The woman came closer, and looked hard at Cadfael then Hugh, as if trying to etch their features in her memory.

"I will add my thanks to my cousin's," she said, her voice a soft alto. "Indeed, it seems that we owe you a great deal."

"You owe us nothing, my lady," Cadfael replied. "We couldn't very well let travellers be robbed right under our noses and do nothing about it."

"In any case, we appreciate the help," she answered politely. "I am lady Isalis Stockley, and this is my cousin, Roger Stockley."

She did not bother to introduce the third man, nor the one lying dead on the ground, probably both squires. The two cousins were very different; Roger was fair haired, when Isalis had the blackest hair. However, they both had striking grey eyes, as much as it was possible to see in the darkness, only pierced by a lantern dangling from the saddle of one of the horses.

"My name is Halsey Roberts," Hugh said, speaking for the first time, "and this is Brother Rhys."

"Are you going to Worcester?" Roger enquired. "That's where we're headed as well."

"Yes," Cadfael nodded. "We had hoped to reach the town before dark, but we were a bit too optimistic."

"The city isn't much further," Isalis replied. "Only a few miles from here. I know this road very well, which is why we travelled with so light an escort. I didn't expect to encounter bandits so close to Worcester."

"Good!" the monk sighed. "The sooner we get there, the better."

"You are hurt?" Roger was looking worriedly at Hugh, who held his left arm carefully close to his chest. Cadfael berated himself for not noticing before - he had not even thought to ask if anyone was injured. And indeed, his friend's sleeve was soaked with blood.

"Just a scratch," Hugh said dismissively.

"Scratch or not, let me see," Cadfael ordered adamantly. "Physician's orders."

Hugh knew his friend too well to even try to protest, and he patiently allowed Cadfael to take a look at his arm, while Roger's squire held the lantern closer for the monk to see the wound better. It was indeed just a scratch, but long and deep, and blood was running down Beringar's arm. Nothing life-threatening, not even close, although it probably hurt a lot.

"It will have to wait until we reach Worcester, I'm afraid," Cadfael said finally. "I can't very well treat this in the dark. Let me just bind it up."

A piece of cloth was sacrificed and the monk wrapped it tightly around his friend's arm. After a few moments, the bleeding slowed down enough to reassure him, and he nodded.

"That will do."

As he spoke, the first, thick and lukewarm drops started to fall, and it began to rain. Soon enough, the dust of the road would become a real swamp.

"We should go now," Lady Stockley said. "We can be at Worcester in half an hour, if we go quickly."

"But won't the gates be closed?" Cadfael said, slightly surprised.

"Don't worry." She gave him a dazzling smile. "They will open to me."

Nonplussed, the monk stared at her. She seemed very sure of herself, with a quiet assurance that usually came with the weight of numerous years - yet she was but in her late twenties. Her bearing was that of a noblewoman, undoubtedly. However, wondering about it would bring no answers, and the only sensible thing to do was to follow the lady's advice. Cadfael hauled himself up to his saddle, and everybody else did the same. He cast a glance at the body of the dead man.

"What about him?" he asked.

"We can't take him with us," Isalis shrugged. "I'll have two men sent here tomorrow at dawn to bring him back, so he can have a Christian funeral."

Out of respect for the dead, Hugh hauled the body to the side of the road, so no one would step on him. Then they resumed their journey. It was still raining, and they could hear the faraway sound of the thunder. Everybody was exhausted, and no one talked much. They just rode in silence, until they saw the dark shape of the town of Worcester appear. Having the end of the journey in sight gave them more strength to finish the last miles, and a few minutes later, they found themselves close to the gates of the city. Roger dismounted, walked to the wooden door and knocked hard. He kept at it until someone appeared on the other side and asked him what he wanted at this hour.

"Open the gate to Lady Stockley!" Roger ordered haughtily; and, to Hugh and Cadfael's surprise, the porter complied. This Isalis seemed to have much more influence than they had initially thought, but they were not going to complain about it.

The small group entered the city, and Isalis and Roger turned to look at their saviors.

"Now, where did you intend to lodge?" Roger queried amiably. "We know the city well, so we can show you the way."

"Thank you," Cadfael nodded. "We intended to ask for hospitality at the abbey..."

"What a coincidence!" Isalis smiled charmingly. "That's our intention as well. We can go together."

They rode through the city streets for a little while, the hooves of their horses clattering on the uneven cobblestones, and the two cousins showed them the way without any hesitation, in spite of the darkness. Obviously, they had not been lying; they knew the city very well indeed.

At the gates of the Abbey, the same scene as before repeated itself; Roger knocked until someone answered, and Isalis' name seemed to be a safe-conduct that opened each and every doors. Thanks to the two cousins, the travellers were accepted without a fuss in spite of the late hour; the monks were just finishing Matins, anyway, and were already up. Hugh helped Cadfael to dismount, and earned a glare from his friend.

"I'm not _that _old yet," the monk protested. "And _you _are hurt."

The only answer he got was a grin, and in spite of his protests, Cadfael was so stiff he did appreciate the help, even if he had to complain about it - just for principles' sake.

The horses were taken to the stables, with the assurance they would be taken care of, and the travellers were offered something to eat, after which they were taken to their rooms. There were already quite a few guests at the abbey of Worcester, and if Isalis, being a woman, was granted a room for herself, once again, Hugh and Cadfael had to share the same room and bed. That did not sadden the monk too much; at least that way he could keep an eye on Hugh's wound without his friend making too much of a fuss. As soon as the two friends were left alone in their room, Cadfael dug through his belongings to find his herbs, and he turned a stern glance on Beringar.

"All right, show me that scratch," he ordered in a no-nonsense voice.

Hugh rolled his eyes but complied, and Cadfael was able for the first time to take a good look at the wound; on the road, the light had been too dim for him to really see anything, apart from the fact that it was not life-threatening. The monk grabbed the pitcher from a small, wobbly table standing against the wall, and cleaned the cut carefully. Hugh remained silent the whole time, apart from an occasional hiss of pain when Cadfael was a bit rough.

"How were you hurt, anyway?" the monk muttered as he kept at his work, as much to take Hugh's mind off the treatment as because he truly wanted to know. "They didn't strike me as very good fighters."

"I... lost my concentration," the sheriff replied shortly, as though embarrassed by something.

Cadfael stopped moving for a second, and glanced at his friend from under his bushy eyebrows, critically.

"You lost your concentration?" he repeated, irony clearly audible in his voice. Beringar averted his eyes.

"I saw you on the ground," he admitted. "And the bandit about to strike. I thought..." his voice broke off, and he said no more. He did not need to. Cadfael nodded gently, and finished his ministrations in silence.

* * *

For once, Cadfael did not rise for Lauds, but he did get up when the bell tolled for Prime. He felt it would be a sin to stay in bed any longer. He had rarely been so tempted to sin, and he shivered in the cold as he put on his scapular. Hugh got up as well. He seemed as enthusiastic about it as Cadfael, but they did have to resume their journey. 

After the office, they came to the refectory with the brothers, and there they found Isalis and her cousin, who were early risers as well, it seemed. They all hungrily ate the meal that was offered to them, with the appetite of people who had been on the road for days.

"Brother Rhys, my lord Roberts," Isalis said as they finished eating, "I know you helped us as good Christians and hoped for nothing in return, yet I feel I must do something to show you my appreciation. Is there really nothing I can do to be of assistance to you in your travel? Where are you headed, if I may ask?"

"We are going to Gloucester," Hugh informed her. "But don't worry about repaying us; if you tell us the way to Gloucester, that's all we ask."

"Gloucester?" she looked surprised, and a strange light gleamed in her eyes. "How surprising! That's where I am going as well. But the journey is long and dangerous, and we would all be safer if we travelled together. Would you accept our company for the remainder of the way?"

"Gladly!" Cadfael assured her. "Certainly, the journey will seem less dull, with such company as yours, my lady."

She laughed, a crystalline, almost childish laugh, lighthearted and joyful.

"Are you certain you really are a monk, Brother Rhys?" she asked mischevously. "You certainly know how to speak to women."

"Oh, trust me," Hugh sniggered. "He most definitely is a monk. A very rare Benedictine, I must say."

Cadfael rolled his eyes and harrumphed grandfatherly, but he appreciated the teasing as much as Isalis and Hugh. A very rare Benedictine... That was what Hugh had called him, soon after they had met for the first time, when he had offered Cadfael his friendship; the memory was dear to the monk's heart.

"By the way, Master Roberts," she added as though struck by a second thought. "How is your arm? I remember your received this wound while coming to our help, and I feel somewhat responsible..."

"Don't," Cadfael cut her. "He... lost his concentration, and it's only his fault he was hurt." The monk shared a wry glance with Hugh, who chuckled without resentment. "Besides, it's only a scratch," Cadfael amended. "You do not need to be concerned about it."

Roger had been speaking with the Abbot, and he came back where they were seated.

"I have taken the liberty to ask Father Luke to have our horses ready in the courtyard," he explained. "We want to be in Gloucester as soon as possible."

"That's all right," Hugh said. "So do we. Shall we go, then?"

The remainder of the trip was mostly uneventful. The weather got milder, and they encountered no more bandits. That was not very surprising, though; even though villains might underestimate Cadfael and the lady, there were still three men, young and well-armed, to defend themselves, and the bandits usually preferred weaker prey. As a consequence, they reached Gloucester a week later, in the late afternoon. In the meantime, Cadfael had gotten a better grasp of the two cousins who accompanied him and Hugh. Isalis was a strong woman, used to have her ways, and she seemed to hold a lot of influence over Roger. She obviously cared a lot for him, in a sisterly way. He, in turn, was easy going, smiled a lot but spoke little.

"I have not asked you," Isalis said as they headed for the gates of the city, less than a mile away now, "why you want so badly to go to Gloucester. It's a long journey, in the winter, is it not?"

"Well, I am here to join the Empress' cause," Hugh replied - he and Cadfael had agreed on this story. "Until now, I wasn't sure what side I should choose. It seemed to me a side was worth another, and I didn't care much who won or lost. But this war is drawing on, and it must end. Maud was designated by her father, and in my opinion, that makes her the legitimate queen of England. That's why I finally decided to join her and offer her my services."

Hugh hated the lying. He was not bad at it - actually, when he wanted to keep his thoughts to himself, even Cadfael was unable to tell what was going on in his head - but he felt it was dishonorable. Yet, the King had given him a mission, and the only way to succeed was to gain credit in Maud's court. There was no other solution, and after a while Hugh had resigned himself to doing it. Cadfael had witnessed his inner turmoil, and he was glad he was not in his friend's shoes.

"In that case, I might be able to help," Isalis said. "I have some influence in the court, and I'd be glad to have you introduced to the Empress; it is the least I can do."

"Thank you," Hugh said, although with less enthusiasm than one might have expected; but only Cadfael knew why. "I appreciate it a lot."

"What about you, Brother Rhys?" The young lady added as she turned to face the monk.

"I came here to see the cathedral and pray. You might call that a kind of pilgrimage; I want to see the greatest cathedrals and churches of England, before I die," he answered. "I met Lord Roberts on the way, and we decided to come here together, but our goals are much different, as you can see."

"I suppose you will both stay at the abbey?" Roger asked.

"Yes, that was our intention," Hugh nodded. "With most of the court being in Gloucester, I suppose all inns will be full."

"I myself will stay at the New Inn, in Northgate Street, where most of the court live - including the Empress - but since I'll come to the abbey for the mass, we'll probably see each other again," Isalis said. "Master Roberts, if you will meet me tomorrow morning in Northgate Street, I'll take you inside so you can see the Empress, maybe even talk to her. You'll see you made the right choice, by coming to her."

"Then I shall be looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, milady," Hugh said as he bowed slightly.

By that time, the small group had reached the gates of Gloucester, and they parted there. Isalis, her cousin and their remaining squire left in direction of Northgate street, while Hugh and Cadfael rode to the abbey, where they hoped to find lodging. Gloucester was a rather important city, and there was a lot of animation in the streets. Merchants, workers, apprentices and the such walked about quickly, going about their business. Hawkers cried to praise their products and try to sell their merchandise to anyone who came in hearing range. Beggars stretched out their hands, some of them children, some others old men and women.

"Well, this was an interesting meeting," Cadfael commented as the two friends rode up the main avenue. "This young lady seemed to have a lot of influence. I wonder if she isn't closer to the Empress than she admitted."

"I thought about it as well," Hugh admitted. "I hope not. I hate the idea of betraying the trust she has in me."

"You'll probably have to," Cadfael said gently, pointing out the obvious. "I know you don't like it, Hugh. But you have little choice in the matter. Either you betray her, or it will be someone else you'll be betraying."

The monk did not need to say out loud who it was Hugh would be betraying, if he did not take advantage of Lady Stockley's gratitude. The deputy sheriff was already all too aware of that. His duty to King Stephen was to supplant any other consideration.

"I know," Hugh replied grimly. "It wasn't so hard a choice, when I let Godith go. I have always tried to make fair choices. But in that case... if only I could refuse her help! It might make our mission harder, but at least I would have a clear conscience."

"You can't," Cadfael said with compassion. "It would be too suspicious if you did, after the story you told her."

"I know that. Otherwise, I'd have said no when she offered it."

"You did save her life. Consider you're now all square."

Hugh cast his friend a lop-sided glance. "Are you playing the devil's advocate?"

"How's your arm?" Cadfael asked, evading the question.

"Maybe I should be asking _you _that," Hugh deadpanned. "You've looked at it twice a day ever since we left Worcester."

"There's only so much I can see," the monk replied with dignity. "If it's more painful than it ought to, it might mean it's infected deep inside."

"Ah - don't worry, I don't feel a thing," Hugh reassured him, as he pulled at his reins. Taking his eyes off his friend, Cadfael realized they were now in front of the abbey's gate.

The monk dismounted, followed by the sheriff, and Hugh held the horses while Cadfael went to knock on the wooden gate and ask for hospitality. It was granted without a fuss, and a young novice came to take the horses to the stables of the abbey.

"I'm Brother Gary," the monk who had welcomed them said. "Father Abbot is busy right now, but he asks you if you'd like to sup with him tonight. Meanwhile, I will show you to your rooms."

"Yes, thank you," Hugh nodded. "I accept Father Abbot's offer gladly."

"So do I," Cadfael added for good measure.

"I'm afraid we have a lot of guests, nowadays," brother Gary apologized, "so I can only give you very simple rooms, near the dormitory."

"It's fine," Cadfael assured him. "We're grateful you can even lodge us at all."

"Ah, ever since the Empress has come here," the young monk sighed, shaking his head, "we've had so many people passing by..."

"I saw there was a lot of people in the streets," Hugh commented. "Is it always like that?"

"Not usually, no," Brother Gary said. "But all of the lords in the range of fifty miles around Gloucester either fled or came here. Most of them came, actually. The few who remained faithful to Stephen either wait behind the thick walls of their castles, or have joined the King in the north. By the way, where are you from, if I may ask?"

"The north," Cadfael admitted. "But we didn't see any runaways while we came here."

"They probably hid," the young brother commented. "Ah - here we are. Your room, Master Roberts, and yours, Brother Rhys. Is that a Welsh name?"

"I am Welsh," the monk nodded. "But I have lived in England and the Holy Land for longer than I ever lived in Wales, I have to confess. Sometimes, I feel as though I'm half English and half Welsh..."

"In that case, you'll probably be glad to speak with Brother Dewydd!" Gary leant slightly forward with a conspiratorial face. "I'm a bit worried about him - ever since he came here, three months ago, he has hardly spoken to anyone, and half the time that was in Welsh rather than English. Father Abbot scolded him several times, and gave him penance, but to little avail."

"Uh - of course, I'd be glad to speak with Brother Dewydd," Cadfael nodded, very surprised to hear there was a Welsh monk so far in the south. "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"That would be very kind of you, Brother Rhys. I hope that the sight of another Welshman will appease his soul. I shall pray. Now - if you're ready? It's almost supper time, and I am to show you to the table of Father Bertolf."

* * *

Later that night, Cadfael and Hugh sat in the monk's room to decide how they would proceed. Supper with the Abbot had been uneventful; there were many guests staying at the abbey, and Bertolf had just taken the time to greet them courteously and to enquire about their needs. After that, they were left mostly to themselves, relegated to the farthest end of the table. The meal had been excellent, though. 

"Tomorrow I will go to be introduced in the court with Lady Stockley," Hugh said. If the prospect of taking advantage of Isalis' trust kept bothering him, he certainly did not show it. "What about you?"

"I'll speak to this Welsh lad," Cadfael replied thoughtfully. "He's been there for three months, he might know something, and he'll be inclined to speak with another Welshman. There's also this 'important guest' Father Bertolf mentioned during the supper."

"Really? I didn't pay attention."

"Oh, he didn't say much about this guest - mentioned him in passing would be more accurate, actually. Which is partly why I'm so interested in him. It must be a man of the Church, or why would the Abbot know about it?"

"All right then - seems like you know what you're doing."

"Always," Cadfael smiled. "I might have a word with Brother Gary as well. The poor child seems to be indulging in the sin of talkativeness."

"Yes, I noticed," Hugh chuckled. "In that case, I'll leave you to your fiendish schemes, and go get a good night's sleep. I'm exhausted, and I'd better look good tomorrow, if I am to befriend the Empress' court and listen to all their gossip."

"I must admit..." Cadfael broke off to yawn. "Well, that's self-explanatory, I suppose," he said sheepishly. "Still - show me your arm before you leave."

Hugh complied, and the monk carefully removed the bandage he had put around the wound. It was hardly needed anymore, he established. The cut was healing well, and there was no room for trouble. Satisfied, Cadfael let go of his friend's arm.

"It's healing nicely," he commented. "I won't need to look at it again."

Beringar smiled. "You worry too much."

"A physician's duty," the monk corrected him. "Now, get out and leave an old man to his rest."

Hugh sniggered. "You're old only when it suits you!" But he did go to his own room.


	3. First Impressions

**Chapter 3**

* * *

As planned, the following morning Hugh left early after a quick breakfast at the refectory, with only a polite smile to Cadfael as he passed near him. They had agreed that, for their own safety, it was better that they should not seem too close. They had asserted they had only met recently, so they had to play the part, and since their rooms were neighbouring, they could easily see each other in the evening without attracting too much attention. For the moment, it would have to do.

Cadfael himself had attended all the offices, including Lauds, even though he was tired enough after the journey to stay in bed until noon, or so he felt. But a lifetime of early rising was deeply ingrained in him, and he found he could not just lie still. Besides, skipping the offices would have been deemed rude. Lay guests were not supposed to be up for Matins or Lauds, or for any office in particular, but a visiting brother could not decently not show up. Even though the Abbot might have shown leniency, since Cadfael had just arrived after a long trip, the monk knew his attendance would give a better first impression. If he needed to get closer to Father Bertolf, it was better to start now, and he settled himself to be the most exemplary Benedictine that had ever been seen in the Abbey of Gloucester.

After Prime, and once he had grabbed something to eat, Cadfael decided to do something useful with his time, while Hugh was visiting the Empress' court, so he tried to find Brother Dewydd. The first brother he asked informed him that Dewydd - who turned out to be a mere novice, actually - could be found cleaning the candlesticks or doing some maintenance work, the kind of small jobs novices were often entrusted with. Cadfael began a search for the lad, and eventually found him in the courtyard playing truant. The older man observed him for a little while before he would let his presence be known to the novice, who had not noticed him yet.

The Welsh boy was possibly fifteen or sixteen, with dark hairs and eyes - a feature shared by many in Wales. Short and slender, he had none of that clumsiness which often characterized teenagers, but instead moved with a grace many would have envied. Clad in unflattering black robes, he seemed to be moody and broody, which did not deter Cadfael.

"I thought you were supposed to take care of the candlesticks?" he said, sounding amused rather than scolding. Nevertheless, Dewydd jumped in fright at being caught out. He sighed in relief when he saw who it was - or rather, probably, who it was not.

"Brother," he said formally, and maybe also a bit sulkily, with a thick Welsh accent. "I did what was asked of me - no one said I was supposed to report afterwards."

Cadfael shook his head patiently. "I think I'm beginning to understand what Brother Gary meant."

Suspicion showed on the lad's face at these words. "What did he say about me?"

"Only that you might enjoy some company," Cadfael replied good-naturedly, switching to Welsh. A delighted smile appeared on his compatriot's lips.

"You are Welsh!" he exclaimed with an obvious pleasure at being able, at last, to speak his birth language with someone who understood him and could respond in kind.

"Indeed," Cadfael nodded.

They began to talk quietly in Welsh, and the monk asked his young compatriot some questions about his everyday life at the abbey, so as to get him to ease up a little. He would be more willing to talk of more serious matters if Cadfael was able to gain his trust, and that could not be rushed, so he took his time before he started to ask about things of more consequence.

"And how are the other novices?" he finally asked.

"Matthew snores," the boy grimaced, "and he was even punished because of that. I can't believe you didn't hear him. I thought the whole abbey did."

"Well, the walls are thick enough, and when you're my age, you'll be able to sleep through nearly anything, like me. But it's not his fault the poor boy snores, and I'm sorry to hear he was punished because of it."

"Well, it's not that bad. He at least wants to be here!"

Cadfael took the cue as it came, a gift from heaven.

"From what I heard," he said flippantly, "I gather you are not very happy here, are you?"

"It could be worse," Dewydd admitted honestly. "I am well fed, I'm not cold, I have a roof above my head, so I guess some people have more reasons to complain than I do; but I'd be lying if I said that's the life I wish for."

"I don't quite understand; why stay here, if you don't like it?"

At once, the boy's features hardened, and he looked at Cadfael defiantly, as though he only then realized how little he knew of the monk. "As I said, it could be worse."

The monk assumed a sterner look. "If your vocation is not true, then it would be an insult to the Lord to take the cowl," he said sincerely.

"It might not come to that," the lad said abruptly, then looked uneasy, as if he feared he might have said too much. "I have to go," he said quickly. "Brother Regis will probably be looking for me."

"Wait -" Cadfael began, but he had already left, disappearing behind the corner of the stables. The monk sighed and dropped the hand he had instinctively raised to hold Dewydd back. Yet, there was no helping it, and he decided to wait until he had another occasion to speak to the lad.

He employed the rest of the day to acquaint himself further with the other brothers of the abbey. He was not really eavesdropping, or indulging in curiosity, he told himself firmly. He was just there, and was it his fault if his brothers were impenitent gossipers? On more than one occasion, he caught several of the brothers whispering excitedly among themselves, but they fell silent as soon as someone came near them. Something was going on, that at least was a certainty, but what? Did it have anything to do with this mysterious visitor who was shortly supposed to come to the abbey? And who was this visitor, to begin with?

The years spent at the abbey in Shrewsbury had taught Cadfael that the people who gossiped the most were the ones who had time to gossip. So he found his way to the infirmary, where all the sick, injured and elderly were staying, and he offered his skills to the brother who dealt with the medical care.

"We have a few colds,"Brother Esmond admitted. "With this weather, it isn't surprising. As you probably know, little can be done in that case, but if you would be so kind, you could brew a willow infusion. It's always good for that kind of ailments."

"Of course, I'd be glad to; and if you'll allow me, I have a few herbs I can add that should ease the coughing and possible chest pains."

"Really?" Esmond sounded rather interested. "We haven't had a real herbalist since old Brother Kincaid died. If you find some time to write the recipe down, I'd be grateful, and my patients as well, I think."

"Naturally, and I can leave a few more recipes for some other common potions, easy enough to brew," Cadfael offered, which earned him Brother Esmond's undying loyalty.

"Brother Rhys, you are a gift from heaven!" he exclaimed. "I don't know how long you'll be staying, but anything you can teach me will be useful."

"I'll be staying at least a few days," Cadfael replied, answering the implied question. "After coming all this way, I must take the time to pray properly, and to thank the Lord for guiding me here, where it seems my skills are needed. Speaking of visiting, I've heard someone else will be coming here soon?"

"Oh, that." Esmond gave Cadfael a meaningful glance - meaningful to him only, however, for the monk still had no idea what it was all about. "He should be there by tomorrow... everybody is looking forward to it - and most honoured, of course. But we're not supposed to talk about it. I would be sinning, and _that_ is a sin I'm not too anxious to confess to our Father Abbot."

There was nothing else to gain from the good brother, so Cadfael gave up and began brewing the promised infusion, will keeping his ears open, but to little avail.

By late afternoon, he did not even manage to speak to the Abbot, who had much to do and little time to spare for a visitor. Frustrated to have so learnt little, in the end, Cadfael decided to wait for Hugh, who could not be much longer, and see with him what could be done the next day. Being a visitor to the abbey, he didn't need the authorization of Father Bertolf to go outside, but it would be considered rude if he did not ask nevertheless, so he settled for waiting near the gates after Vespers.

It was only as Hugh entered that he noticed something he had not paid attention to when he had arrived the previous day. There were two guards on each side of the gate - or at any rate, two men in arms who were standing there, which came down to more or less the same thing. But what were they doing there? Confused and disturbed, Cadfael headed to the garden, and waited there. At this hour, everybody was busy elsewhere, so they would not be interrupted. As he expected, a few minutes later he heard the familiar footsteps of his friend, and Hugh came to sit on the bench near him, as though he was just there to enjoy the soft breeze of the evening, and it had nothing to do with a certain Benedictine.

"Brother Rhys, what a surprise!" he said with an ironic smile, and Cadfael restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

"Indeed, my lord Roberts," he replied with a discreet snort, before dropping the act. "No one's listening, I checked. We can talk."

For all of Hugh's gentle mockery, his features were darker than the previous morning, and he looked particularly unhappy, which led Cadfael to wonder what could have happened at the court. Well, he would not have to wait long before he knew.

"So how was your day?" Hugh queried, as he stretched with a groan of satisfaction.

"Not very enlightening," Cadfael admitted ruefully, glancing dejectedly at the bare branches of a nearby tree. "I have talked with many of the brothers, listened to even more of them, but all I have found out is that a mysterious visitor will probably arrive at the abbey tomorrow, and that the Welsh novice isn't very happy to be here. Actually, when I tried to speak with him about it, he closed tighter than an oyster. Your own day was probably much more interesting."

"Oh, I wouldn't bet on that."

"At least, you had the company of the charming Lady Stockley."

"Hmmm."

Cadfael frowned and cast a sidelong glance at his friend. Hugh really did not look happy.

"What happened?" the monk asked.

"You'll never guess whom I met."

"Should I even try?"

"Probably not. I was introduced to the court by Lady Stockley - by the way, you were right, she has much more influence than I thought - and then I talked with a few people. Only, I hadn't planned to end up in the same room as Fulke Adeney."

"What?" Cadfael stilled, his mind frantically working on the implications of that dreadful meeting. "Did he see you? Did he even recognize you?"

"I'm not sure whether he saw me or not," Hugh admitted. "If so, he didn't show it. But he would definitely recognize me. We were very close, before my father died and I came to Shrewsbury."

"Would he betray you? Maybe he saw you, but for your sake he won't tell the Empress."

"Not a chance. He might try to save my life - and that is a big 'might' - but he would definitely tell Maud about my presence here. I just hope he didn't see me. If he had, though, I suppose I would have been arrested by now..."

They were silent for a while. Their mission had not started very well.

"What else did you learn?" Cadfael eventually asked.

"I listened, tried to hear without being seen, that kind of things. I can tell you something is definitely going on, but it's hard to say what. I have only just arrived, and no one trusts me, even though I contributed to saving Lady Stockley's life. But I'm supposed to go back there for the midday meal, tomorrow. Maybe you'd care to accompany me?"

The monk frowned, although he had to admit he was very tempted. In spite of all these conspiratorial looks and whispers about the mysterious visitor, he did not feel like he was accomplishing much by staying at the abbey, and he disliked the idea of letting Hugh take all the risks upon himself. But how could he justify his presence there ?

"Wouldn't it seem strange that a mere monk should attend such a meal?" he ruefully objected in the end, but Hugh shook his head.

"Nay, I don't think it would be a problem. After all, you also helped save Lady Stockley's life - or her honour, which comes down almost to the same thing."

"In that case..." Cadfael murmured. "I'll just have to ask Father Bertolf for his authorization."

"But you're not under his jurisdiction," his friend objected.

"That is indeed true, but he still is my superior. It is only polite to ask him; and if he forbade me to go - which I don't think he will - I would have to exercise great caution if I was to go against his wishes."

"All right, all right," Hugh relented. "You know how these things work better than I do anyway."

At this moment, there was the sound of a bell tolling - the signal that it was time for dinner. The monk and the deputy sheriff rose together and by mutual agreement they contrived to arrive at the refectory from two different directions. They had no reason to fear anything, but better safe than sorry. Inwardly, Hugh thought that, if Adeney had indeed recognized him, it was better that Cadfael should not be linked back to him. Maybe he should not even have invited him to the meal on the next day, but it was too late for regrets. And no way he would tell Cadfael about that - the stubborn Benedictine would take that as an incentive to stay as close to Hugh as he could.

Once again, during the meal, the Abbot was rather busy with all the more important guests he needed to speak with, and both Hugh and Cadfael escaped any notice, much to their relief. After dinner, they had a little time before Cadfael had to attend Compline, so they went back to their rooms, where they would not be disturbed. As they walked together, speaking casually like two people who had not known one another for a long time, Hugh got a word in edgeways, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

"By the way, Brother Rhys, since you are an herbalist, I was wondering if you wouldn't have a look at this scratch on my arm... I thought it was healed, but it is painful again."

"Of course," Cadfael nodded. "I wouldn't like to risk it becoming infected. Come into my room, I left my medicines there."

Now, Hugh had a legitimate excuse to be in the same room as his friend, and no one could find fault with it. The monk closed the door behind them; it was so thick no one could eavesdrop, if they kept their voices low enough.

"Good excuse," Cadfael praised. "Unless it's really painful?"

Hugh shook his head with a small smile. "Nay, it was just convenient."

Cadfael sat on his bed, leaving the only chair to his friend, who did not need to be asked twice.

"Tomorrow, this mysterious guest should arrive. I'll see him when I'm back from the midday meal."

"You haven't asked the abbot yet," the deputy sheriff commented.

"I'll do it after Compline."

"Now that I think of it, if this guest should arrive tomorrow, perhaps it would be better if you stayed here to see what he looks like," suggested Hugh, who thought it was a good excuse to make up for his stupid idea of taking Cadfael with him to the court. The farther the monk was from him, the remoter the link between them was, the better - at least, as long as Adeney was anywhere nearby. But now that he had been tempted into coming to the court, Cadfael was not about to let himself be talked out of it.

"No need, I'll have many occasions to see him, I think. Besides, upon his arrival, he'll most probably be talking to Father Bertolf, and I doubt I'd get any occasion to overhear, so it would be a complete waste of time."

"All right then," Hugh relented, aware that if he pressed the matter any more, Cadfael would most likely suspect something. The monk was staring at him a bit too hard for his liking, as it was. "What about the rest of the day?"

"I'll try to hear some more gossip," Cadfael said, with a blatant lack of enthusiasm - much to his friend's amusement. "There should be enough to fill a whole bucket. But you should stay at the court, try to learn a bit more about who is the most likely to have important information..."

"That I already know," Hugh frowned dejectedly. "People like Robert of Gloucester, or the Earl of Chester. Only, they are untouchable, nearly unapproachable, and they certainly don't give their trust easily. Well, I suppose I can't blame them. Mind you, if I had six months, I might get to something. But I don't have that time, nor does the King."

"What about someone more... minor? Someone no one sees, someone no one would think about," Cadfael suggested. "A servant, a squire..."

"That's a good idea. It's worth trying, at any rate. I'll see about that tomorrow in the afternoon, then."

At that point, Cadfaek rose silently, with a grimace for his aching muscles - his long ride would take a few more days before it was forgotten. A dark eyebrow was raised as Hugh watched him, but the monk motioned for him to say nothing, and he walked to the door as discreetly as he could, before opening it suddenly. There was no one behind, and the corridor was deserted.

"I could swear I heard something," Cadfael frowned as he turned back to face his friend.

"Some creaking or some kind of echo, most likely," the sheriff replied dismissively.

The monk looked unconvinced. "Perhaps."

The bells tolled for Compline. It was time to go and ask the Abbot for the authorization to go out the next day.


	4. The Duel

**Chapter 4**

* * *

In his long years of tribulations, Cadfael had been in the company of tramps, of wretches, but also of lords of high degree. He had even seen King Stephen, and talked with him, if only for a few minutes - although it had obviously been enough for the King to remember him, even years later. However, he could not help but feel slightly impressed at the sight of this gathering of some of the most powerful lords in England. It was also the first time he had seen the Empress; a woman in her early forties, with streaks of grey in her brown hair - which was hardly surprising, considering what a thorn Stephen had been in her side for the last five years or so. She had a royal bearing, and the determined face of a woman used to have her way. She was known to be fanciful, and sometimes be harsher than she should with even the most faithfuls of her followers, but none of that showed in her behaviour at that moment, from what Cadfael could tell. Then again, he was on the other side of the room, so he could not tell much. He just saw her speaking quietly with Robert of Gloucester, her half brother, and seemingly paying little attention to whatever was going on around her, although Cadfael was certain it was just a pretense. 

Hugh was there as well, but for the sake of caution kept his distances. At that very moment, he was chatting amiably with Lady Stockley, and they were in the midst of quite a few other noblemen. From time to time, Roger would send his cousin and her companion a benevolent glance, then get back to his own discussion and his circle of friends. Cadfael could not hear what they were saying, but he did not need to - he could venture a safe guess by supposing they were talking about politics. Actually, the whole thing was getting a bit boring, but Cadfael could not really complain; he had insisted on going, even when Hugh had suggested he should stay at the abbey and enquire about the mysterious guest. No doubt Beringar would remind him of that if he said anything. At that point, all he could do was make the best of a bad deal, maybe speak with Gloucester's squire, if he could find him, or with the servants of his house...

However, Cadfael did not have the time to put the idea into effect, for a commotion brought his eyes back to Hugh and Lady Stockley. A lord had obviously decided that Beringar was taking too many liberties, monopolizing the lady, and had stepped in to get rid of the cumbersome saviour. Hugh was not about to let anyone raise his hackles, and he replied courteously, but adamantly. Cadfael could see only the right side of his face, but even from where he was, he noticed the frown and the tense jaw. The lord's answer appeared to be haughty, and probably very impolite, for Hugh paled and clenched his teeth, before responding - still politely, but in a frosty tone. Cadfael tried to get closer to his friend, but there were a lot of people in the room, and he had trouble going through the crowd. He was not yet halfway through when the lord seemed to say a few scathing words and threw his glove on the ground.

The monk opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to shout, 'No! Don't pick it up!', but it was useless. Hugh had little choice but to accept the challenge, and with a feeling of dread, Cadfael saw him bend and take the gauntlet. At that point, most people had stopped speaking and were staring at the two lords; a few heated arguments, that was to be expected after a good meal and plenty of French wine. But a duel? It rarely went to that extent, and everybody waited in anticipation to see how the Empress would react.

Aware of all the eyes set on her, she rose slowly and walked closer to the two men. She was surprisingly short, now that she was not seated anymore, but she still had an aura that gave her a quiet authority.

"Well? Master Ayrton? Master Roberts?" her voice sounded clearly in the now very silent room. "You dare to quarrel in our presence? Will you explain what it is about?"

"Lord Roberts insulted me!" Ayrton, if that was his name, asserted immediately.

Cadfael took the time to look more closely at the man. He was tall, much taller than Hugh, with brown hair, and very brawny - a born warrior. There was something predatory in his stance, and the way he eyed Hugh made the monk think of an hungry wolf looking at a lamb. Except that, although he did not look very dangerous at first glance, Hugh was a far cry from a defenceless lamb.

"I am the one who has been insulted," the deputy sheriff said calmly.

If Maud had not been an Empress, Cadfael had a feeling she would have rolled her eyes, like a mother in front of two unruly children.

"Will you apologize to each other?" she asked.

"No!" Ayrton exclaimed, before he realized he could not speak like that to his queen. "I will if you order it, of course," he amended quickly.

"I am your guest and subject; I shall do your bidding," Hugh said.

Maud glanced at him appreciatively, and much to Cadfael's surprise, she almost seemed... regretful?

"If that is so, it might be better to put an end to this quarrel before the offence is greater," she said. "The fight seems unavoidable. I don't want to end up with a charge of murder and have to lock up the survivor, whatever the outcome. You shall fight here and now, with the present witnesses to testify it was done lawfully, with honour."

Cadfael stared at her in disbelief. In his opinion, the fight was not unavoidable at all; had not Ayrton just said he would accept a peaceful outcome if she ordered it? Then again, what could Cadfael do or say that would not make things worse? Besides, the crowd did not look like it wanted a peaceful ending; it was thirsty for blood. Too much waiting in-between fights, maybe, or too long a war, but they saw this duel as a diversion, the monk realized with disgust. It reminded him way too much of the duel between Hugh and Courcelle, years ago. He only hoped the outcome would be the same.

The crowd moved back to give both men enough room for their duel. After a struggle, Cadfael reached the first row, but Hugh did not bestow him as much as a glance. He drew is sword, as did Ayrton, obeying the Empress' orders, and the monk felt his entrails tighten. In comparison with his foe, Beringar looked almost frail, even though he was much stronger than he appeared. Cadfael did not want to stay there and just watch, but there was little else he could do. The suddenness of the fight left him nonplussed.

Hugh left the initiative to his opponent, as he kept a defensive stance. If he was strong, Ayrton was also impatient, and he did not wait long before he dealt the first strike. Neither of the two duellers had his shield, and thus they could not afford to be hit, even once, by the heavy and sharp swords they wielded, so Hugh dodged swiftly. Faster than his foe, he used that to his advantage, and kept moving around him prudently, ready to spring to action when he saw an opening. The crowd had grown very silent, and the only sounds were the clangs of steel and the groans of the duellers. The Empress was observing them, eyes narrowed, and she whispered something to her half brother, who shook his head and whispered back.

The fight continued. Seconds stretched and became minutes for Cadfael, anxiously watching his friend struggle for his life, aware that everything could be finished in a mere moment. They parried and attacked, and parried again. Hugh counter-attacked viciously and was fended off, almost losing his footing because of Ayrton's strength. So far, both men had but scratches to account for.

It might have dragged on longer, but Ayrton grew too impatient, and he attacked once again, trying to use his superior weight, height and strength to overwhelm Hugh. But as he rushed forward, ready to deal a killing blow, his right foot slipped on the ground, and he bent forward too much. He tried to draw back as quickly as he could, but it was too late; Hugh's blade came to rest on his neck.

"That's enough!" The voice was Maud's, and she waved her hand impatiently. "Master Ayrton yields. Obviously." There was contempt in her voice, and Cadfael had a feeling that this man would wait a long time for royal favors.

Hugh nodded obediently - he had nothing to gain by defying the Empress - and he sheathed his sword. In the end, no blood had been drawn, which Cadfael would have thought unlikely at best when it all began. And his friend was unscathed, save for a few grazes of no consequence. He saw Isalis and her cousin approach.

"You are a good fighter, Master Roberts," Isalis said with a smile, although a bit distantly.

"I was lucky," Hugh admitted truthfully. "I am sorry about this incident. I didn't mean it to go that far. Is that man a friend of yours?"

"We know each other, yes," the lady replied, but Cadfael thought she was evading the question. "You don't have to apologize for this. I am sorry for Lord Ayrton's behaviour. He shouldn't have taken it upon him to fight for my sake without even asking me first."

"Well, he cares about you," Roger commented. "Who could blame him?" The lady's cousin smiled at Hugh. "And I think Ayrton's not the only one."

Hugh looked a bit embarrassed, but probably not for the reason Roger or Isalis thought. Cadfael knew his friend was probably thinking about Aline, but since 'Halsey Roberts' was not supposed to be married, there was nothing he could do or say. However, Isalis seemed to enjoy his uneasiness - which was understandable. A woman, young still, would always enjoy the attention a man would give her, and play with it.

At this point, Cadfael decided it was time for him to leave. He had got the Abbot's authorization to attend the midday meal with Hugh, but he was supposed to be back before None, and he had no intention of displeasing the Abbot on that matter. He discreetly waved his hand to let Hugh know he was leaving, and his friend responded with a curt nod.

As soon as he was out, Cadfael felt relieved. Attending that kind of gatherings was not for him, he decided, as he deeply inhaled the fresh air outside. Hugh, although he was not of such high birth, had been raised as a nobleman, and as such obviously felt at ease in those surroundings, but a humble monk like Cadfael himself did not. He had given up on the world, long ago, and even though he did take pleasure in his regular excursions outside the cloister, he felt a bit vulnerable, so far from home.

Home... yes, he had eventually found a home. It had taken some time before he was fully certain he had made the good choice, but he had not doubted for over fifteen years. He liked his new life - as much as he may call it new when he had been a monk for over twenty years - and had little intention of changing it. But first and foremost, to be able to go back, he needed to carry out the mission the King had unfortunately set in his hands. And so far, neither he nor Hugh were any closer to what they were looking for.

Deep in thoughts, Cadfael walked to the abbey, but as he arrived at the gate, he realized there was a lot more agitation than there should be just before None. The two guards he had noticed the previous day were still there, which was surprising in itself, but not only that; several brothers were running back and forth, fretting about, and there were much more people talking than was really proper in a cloister. So the mysterious guest had just arrived? As he entered the courtyard, Cadfael at once noticed the horses, which had not been taken to the stable yet, and all the luggage, not to mention men-at arms - most likely the visitor's escort. Cadfael looked around, but could see no one who would trigger such a reaction. Eventually, he located Brother Gary, and he intercepted him.

"What is going on, Brother, that no one is ready for None yet?" he asked.

"Oh - Brother Rhys, did you just get back? The Bishop is here!"

"Bishop?" Cadfael repeated, nonplussed. "What Bishop?"

"The Bishop of Winchester, of course!" Gary said, then glanced guiltily at the trim figure of the Brother Prior, nearby. "Excuse me, brother, but I can't stay idle."

He left swiftly, and Cadfael did not try to hold him back as he tried to understand what was happening. Henry of Winchester was supposedly on King Stephen's side, so what would he be doing in Gloucester? Trying to convince the Empress to talk about peace or to get her to give up her rights to the throne? No, ridiculous. Firstly, had that been the case, he would not have needed to come himself - he could as well send a courier - and secondly, there was no chance the Empress would ever accept any kind of compromise. It had been tried before, and it had failed. So what was Winchester doing there? Turning and turning the problem over in his mind, Cadfael was about to head for the gardens, where he might get some peace and quiet to think, but Brother Gary seemed to appear at his side out of thin air.

"Oh - Brother, I forgot to tell you. Dewydd was looking for you, said he had something to tell you."

"He does? About what?" Cadfael asked. Really, this was a day for surprises.

Gary shrugged. "That he did not tell me."

"Well, thank you then. I'll see if I can find him."

Now, that was another matter entirely, Cadfael mused as he finally made his way to the gardens. Dewydd had met him the day before, so what could he want to say he had not said on their first meeting? What had changed meanwhile?

The simplest way was probably to locate the boy and ask him, but in the confusion following the Bishop's arrival, that was easier said than done. No, he would just try to find the boy after None or Vespers, or in any case after dinner. Speaking of None, the bells were tolling, and Cadfael would do well to hurry if he did not want to be late.

All this kept his mind busy, and he had trouble focusing on the higher concepts and meditating, as he should have. Instead of the greatness of virtue, he could not help but ponder the unexpected arrival of the Bishop of Winchester, the mystery of the soldiers guarding the door of the abbey, this very strange duel between Hugh and this Lord Ayrton... Too many things did not add up. Cadfael had a feeling he was missing something, but what? At any rate, there were quite a few things he would need to talk to Hugh about. Perhaps the deputy sheriff would have another take on the situation, and in any case, speaking with someone else of his line of thought would help Cadfael clear his mind. He peeked at the Bishop from where he was standing in the choir, his curiosity gnawing at him.

After None, Cadfael tried to find Dewydd again, but he could not see him among the monks, so he gave up and went back to the infirmary to give a hand to Brother Esmond, who obviously appreciated his help, as well as the occasion to speak to someone from the outside world. Esmond himself had entered the cloister when he was five, and although he went out on some occasions - when he needed to care for the poor and the wretched - he had little knowledge of the human nature and of all the wonders and dangers of the world. His innocence was somewhat refreshing.

It was only after Vespers that Cadfael managed to find Dewydd. He noticed the boy leaving with the other novices, and he hurried to catch up with him. The Welsh lad seemingly was not very close to his fellow novices, and stayed somewhat away from them. Actually, even when he was in the middle of them, he still seemed to be out of their reach. He spoke with none of them and ignored them haughtily, with the arrogance an offspring of a noble house might have shown. Perhaps he was the youngest child of a noble family and had been given to the Church - many noble families did that. But why so far from Wales, in that case? Had his family tried to get rid of him? Was it the reason for the pain Cadfael guessed when he looked at these dark eyes and the tensed features of his face?

However, said tensed features brightened a little when Dewydd saw the monk approaching, and he even smiled.

"Brother Rhys! It's nice to see you."

"I heard you were looking for me?"

He glanced at the other novices, who were slowly getting back to their tasks. "Not here, or Brother Regis will say I'm being truant again."

"Well, aren't you?" Cadfael pointed out.

He shrugged dismissively. "Maybe a little. So what?" His tone was now slightly provocative, as though he was trying to see how far he could get, trying to assess Cadfael. But the monk had been forty years in the world, and shocking him was not that easy, as Dewydd would realize soon enough.

"What was it you wanted to tell me so badly?"

They started to walk in the direction of the gardens. It seemed to be Dewydd's favourite place, just as it was Cadfael's. It was quiet, and beautiful, and he loved flowers as much for their scent as for their healing powers. However, at this time of the year, there were no flowers. The upside of it was that at this hour, everyone was busy elsewhere, and no one bothered going into the gardens. They preferred to stay inside and warm, as much as possible. It was really the best place to speak privately, especially since there were few hiding places for eavesdroppers, behind the naked branches of the trees and bushes.

"I... Dewydd started, then hesitated. He glanced at Cadfael, as though pondering whether he should speak to him or not. "Are you staying here long, Brother?"

The monk raised an eyebrow. After taking all this trouble to speak to him privately, the boy was now beating around the bushes? He could have asked such an innocent question anywhere, anytime. "It depends what you mean by 'long'. It's not the best time of the year to travel, and I'd like to stay here some time, to pray and give thanks to God properly." He felt a bit guilty for such a lie. He'd have to do some penance, later.

"And... after you leave, where will you go?"

"I made a vow to visit all the greatest cathedrals and holy places in England before I die," Cadfael lied again. After all these lies, he would really have to do a lot of penance. "So I'm not sure yet where my steps will next take me."

"Oh..." For some reason, Dewydd looked disappointed. "You won't be going back to Wales, then?"

"To Wales?" Cadfael was rather taken aback. "I don't know. Why?"

"Well, I - never mind. I was just wondering." The boy looked very uneasy now, and fidgeted uncomfortably. "Thank you for your time, Brother. I really must go, now."

"Wait - I might be going there. If so, is there something I can do for you?"

For a moment, Dewydd looked hard at Cadfael, biting his lip. His inward struggle eventually ended, and he nodded. "Yes, thank you, Brother. If you do go back to Wales, would you be so kind as to pass a message to my relatives?"

"Why - of course," Cadfael said, a bit surprised - he did not see why Dewydd would like to keep it so secret.

"Let me know when you've reached a decision, then," the boy said quickly. "And... Brother?"

"Yes?"

"Please, don't speak of this to anyone?" he begged, his face a mixture of hope and fear. For all his aloofness, when he confided in someone, he was an open book.

"My lips are sealed," Cadfael promised.

"Thank you!" Dewydd exclaimed wholeheartedly. "Ah - I really, really have to go now."

He ran away, without looking behind him, leaving a most thoughtful Cadfael alone in the gardens.

Hugh came back to the abbey soon after that, and later in the evening, after dinner, Cadfael and he went into the monk's room, to speak about the events of the day. The Bishop had not been seen since Vespers, and he had probably eaten in the Abbot's room, since Bertolf had not been seen either, so Hugh did not know of Winchester's arrival at Gloucester. He let out a low whistle when Cadfael told him about it.

"Well - that's something," he commented. "You've seen him - do you think he's here to join the Empress? I must admit, I can see no other reason for his being here."

"Neither can I," Cadfael admitted. "But he's brother to Stephen!"

Hugh shrugged. "That doesn't mean anything, nowadays."

"I suppose so," the monk agreed ruefully. "But the choice is his, after all, and we can't condemn him for it."

Beringar looked at him fondly. "Yes, I tend to forget you take no sides in this war. At any rate, Winchester's presence doesn't concern us. We'll have to report it, I suppose, but Stephen would have heard about it anyway, sooner or later. We need something more concrete, more specific."

"Yes, I suppose so, but there are a few things we need to speak about first," Cadfael said firmly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well - have you noticed there are guards at the entrance of the abbey? Not to mention this duel you picked earlier today." The monk raised a hand to stifle the protest Hugh was about to give him. "I'm not saying it was your fault, Hugh. He left you little choice in the matter, especially in front of the Empress. But didn't you find it weird, how he picked a duel with you for no real reason? And the Empress wanted this fight to happen - yet she stopped it as soon as you clearly had the upper hand."

Pursing his lips, Beringar glanced wryly at his friend. "Well, I suppose she was testing me, or something like that. Or perhaps she was bored." Cadfael was not convinced, but said nothing. "As for the guards at the entrance - I didn't really pay attention, I confess. When did they come?"

"They were already here when we arrived, I think. I didn't really pay attention either at that moment, but yesterday, while waiting for you, I have noticed how they look at anyone trying to leave the abbey. Yet, they speak to no one, and they do not try to stop anyone from entering or leaving."

"They were already there? Then, they have nothing to do with us. Maybe a precaution, because of the Bishop's arrival?"

"But they were posted there _before _the Bishop's arrival," Cadfael argued.

"Well, I don't know, then. Maybe we should try to speak with them. Although, they're not our primary concern."

"I doubt they'll tell us anything," Cadfael sighed. "Anyway, did you discover anything interesting this afternoon, at the court? You didn't pick another fight, I hope?"

"Nay, don't worry," Hugh chuckled. "Nothing of the sort happened. But I did meet someone interesting, Lady Stockley introduced me to him. His name is Alan FitzJohn, and he's Gloucester's personal secretary. Which means he most probably witnesses all the important meetings and takes notes for his master."

"Indeed?" Cadfael raised an eyebrow. "He must be deeply trusted by Gloucester."

"And I have no doubt he's worthy of this trust," Hugh agreed. "But notes can be stolen."

"It's a sin to steal," Cadfael said half-heartedly.

"Not if it can help end this war sooner. And the sooner, the better."

"Well, I suppose there is no other way," the monk said darkly.

"Apart from kidnapping Gloucester himself and bringing him to the King, no..." Hugh trailed off and frowned thoughtfully. "Actually, that's an interesting idea..."

"Oh no!" the monk raised a threatening finger. "Don't even think about it, Hugh. We're here to gather information, fine. But no kidnapping. I won't condone that."

Beringar shook his head appeasably. "I was just joking, Brother. For God's sake! Besides, even if I wanted to try it, it wouldn't be feasible. Gloucester is better protected than the Empress herself!"

"Good," Cadfael said dryly. "And it wasn't funny. Now, about the secretary, what do you have in mind?"

"Well, I've been invited to a feast tomorrow evening, so I'll take this opportunity to get to know him better. Someone who drinks will say a lot more than he normally would. Or I'll try to locate his quarters and search his papers."

The bell tolled for Compline, and with a sigh, Cadfael rose to his feet. "I must go."

"I know. I'll see you after Compline, then."

Faithful to his word, Cadfael said nothing about Dewydd's message to his friend. It did not have anything to do with their mission, anyway.


	5. A Narrow Escape

**Chapter 5**

* * *

The next day was rather quiet, until after Vespers, at which time Hugh began to get ready for the feast he had been invited to. He disappeared in his room and came out a little while later, clad in his finest clothes. He would not be the most stylish among the numerous lords, most of them of higher degree and much wealthier than him, but it would do. Besides, it was Lady Stockley who had invited him, and as long as she was by his side all eyes would be focusing on her anyway - her beauty would make her overshadow Hugh completely, which was rather convenient, given the circumstances. 

He came out and headed for the gates of the abbey, stopping in the courtyard when he saw Cadfael. A flicker of amusement gleamed in the monk's eyes when he saw Hugh's new attire, before he noticed the scowl that darkened Beringar's features.

"Well, what's wrong? You're going to a feast with a... most beautiful and charming young woman."

Hugh sniggered. "You know perfectly well that I'm faithful to Aline. Besides, that's not the problem. I've lost my favourite dagger."

Cadfael nodded as he noticed the empty sheath at Hugh's belt. "Do you think it was stolen?"

"No," he shook his head. "If a robber had come in my room, he'd have taken my gold as well. Not to mention the sheath of the dagger, and my sword. No, I probably left it somewhere, but I've no time left to look for it. Well, never mind that. So what are you going to do, while I'm away?"

"Well, I suppose I'll ask the Bishop of Winchester to bless me," Cadfael said with a smile. "And who knows, I might see something I'm not supposed to while waiting for his goodwill."

Chuckling, Beringar bent slightly forward to whisper, in a voice low enough to be safe,. "You make a better spy than I'd have thought."

"I don't like it," the monk murmured dryly, "but since we're here and we have little choice in the matter, better to take care of it and be done with it as quickly as possible. Good luck with your secretary."

"Thanks. Good evening to you. Ask the Bishop to pray for me."

With a nod, Hugh turned away and called for Brother Porter. He would have taken his horse, but probably there would have been no room left for him in the stables, and the stallion would have given hell to pay to the poor stablelads trying to take care of him. It was this fierceness, this unbreakable will, that made the grey horse so valuable to him. Hugh respected him, and the stallion respected him in kind. The deputy sheriff was one of the few human beings the horse suffered on his back. But in any case, walking a little bit would not hurt, and even though the evening was rather cold, Hugh had a good cloak, warm and thick.

He headed first to the New Inn in Northgate Street, where he was supposed to meet Lady Stockley. The feast itself was to take place at Robert of Gloucester's own house, but Hugh had had time by now to see a bit of the town, and he knew more or less where to find both buildings. Northgate Street was in the centre of Gloucester, east of the Severn, and Robert's mansion was a bit further, northeast of the New Inn.

She was waiting for him, lovely in her blue dress, with her black hair flowing down her shoulders. She bestowed him a gracious smile when she noticed him striding towards her, and waited until he reached her side and bowed politely to her.

"My lady," he said.

"My lord," she replied with an easy laugh.

"Isn't your cousin accompanying us?" It would have been more proper. Then again, she did not seem to care all that much about propriety.

"No, he'll be going on his own. I think he enjoys the company of his friends better than ours. Shall we go?"

Beringar offered her his arm, and they started walking toward Gloucester's mansion. Lady Stockley began to speak about all kind of things, gossiping about people she knew and the latest news from the court, and Hugh listened politely, offering a few sarcastic comments from time to time. He did not mind idle chatter, as long as he was not asked to take a more active part in it, and she did not seem to mind being the one who talked the most.

However, as they arrived at the mansion and joined everyone else in the huge hall, instead of focusing on the party, Hugh's thoughts wandered back to his Benedictine friend. Pity Cadfael could not come there; his wits would have been most welcome in this situation. He needed to find Alan FitzJohn and get him to talk, and Cadfael had an uncanny hability to make people say more than they intended to. Hugh was often astonished to see the monk knew more about a case than him with all his men, when _he _was stuck in the abbey and could not go out without the Abbot's authorization. Granted, the new abbot was most understanding of Cadfael when it came down to enquiries and criminal matters, yet the monk still could not really move freely around. Hugh had dubbed that effect the "Cadfael mysteries," and he doubted he would ever clear them up.

"My lord ?"

He raised his head, and saw Lady Stockley looking at him. Feeling a bit guilty for having ignored her, he smiled apologetically.

"Excuse me, you were saying?"

Her face twisted in a childish pout. "Is my company so dull that you do not pay attention when I am speaking with you?"

"No! No, not at all," he said immediately. "Please forgive me. I got distracted."

He must have been convincingly contrite, and she considered with a small smile whether she should be lenient or not. Eventually she nodded and granted him clemency, although a little haughtily.

"Why don't we sit down?" she suggested.

He agreed, and they found a seat on a bench, among other men and women of the nobility. Dinner was rather dull, in spite of Lady Stockley's pleasant conversation; he could not help but think about his mission, and that prevented him from really enjoying the discussion. At last, Hugh tried to find FitzJohn, but he could not see him. A bit disgruntled at the idea of having wasted the entire evening to so little gain, he eventually enquired about him from one of the lords in the crowd, after dinner, while Lady Stockley was finishing her dessert.

"Alan FitzJohn?" the man repeated, as though trying to remember where he had heard the name before. "Oh, right, Gloucester's secretary, is that it?" Hugh nodded to confirm. "I heard he had work to catch up with and he stayed at the New Inn, why?"

"Oh - no special reason. I've heard very complimentary things about him, and I was looking forward to meeting him," Beringar replied hastily. He did not wish to raise any suspicion. Well, not any more than he already had, anyway.

He got back to Lady Stockley, and poured some wine for her, but she barely touched it.

"Are you all right?" he enquired. She did look a bit pale and tired.

"I'm sorry," she replied in a strained voice. "I'm just a bit weary. Would you mind taking me back?"

"Of course, but - do you want me to fetch a physician?"

"No, no, that's not necessary, and I'm sorry to be spoiling your evening."

"You're not," he assured her, and he was being sincere - the party had been rather boring so far. He knew he should have stayed around, asking questions, trying to talk and hear the gossip, but that was what he had done for the last two days, and someone who asked too many questions was someone suspect in the eyes of many people. Rightly so in this case, since he was a spy. Not to mention most of the gossip was just tedious.

He helped her wrap her cloak around her shoulders and offered her his arm to take her back to the New Inn. She relied heavily on his arm - so heavily that he wondered at one point whether she was trying to seduce him. But no. She was a respectable widow, and he had no right to suspect her of such shameful behaviour just because she was tired and used him to support her.

By then, the streets were almost empty; had it been summer, there would have been much more people going about their business, but it was winter, night fell early and it was cold, so most people stayed in their homes, near the fireplace. The only ones still out were probably not very savoury men, not that it frightened Hugh - he had a sword, in default of a dagger, and he knew how to use it.

However, they reached the New Inn without any trouble, and Hugh shepherded the lady about to her room. He did not enter, however - it would not have been proper. On the threshold she turned around and gave him a dazzling smile.

"Thank you," Lady Stockley said. "I have spent a very enjoyable evening in your company, and it's a pity it was shortened thus. But I refuse to bother you any longer. Please, go back to the party and enjoy yourself."

"Well..." Hugh hesitated, if only for a second, for he had no intention whatsoever of going back to the party; but she looked at him with pleading eyes.

"Please, promise me you will go back there, or I'll feel terribly guilty."

He could hardly refuse such a request, not to mention she would have asked why if he had. Besides, as boring as it might be, it _was _his duty to do so and try to fish out some more information. If FitzJohn was not available, he would just have to find another secretary. Better not to rush things too much.

"All right," he relented. Then again, he had never said how long he would stay at the party. He would just go back there for a few minutes, see if he could find anything, and then go back to the abbey and that would be it. Perhaps Cadfael would have discovered something new by then.

They bade each other good night, and she closed the door. Beringar left the New Inn and headed back to Robert of Gloucester's mansion, walking quickly to warm himself up. Nothing happened along the way, and he reached the house soon enough. As he entered the hall for the second time that evening, he found the party pretty much in the same state as it was when he had left it, noblemen and women speaking quietly together, music playing and the such. Hugh made for the centre of the room, where he would be more likely to hear everything interesting... and he bumped into the one man he had hoped he would not meet. The man who might have become his father-in-law, had the course of events not changed so radically. Fulke Adeney.

Adeney recognized him immediately. His eyes widened in astonishment, but it did not take him long to steady himself, and he opened his mouth to shout. Hugh looked around frantically to find an escape route; but neither of them had time to do anything before someone cried out, loud and clear.

"Alan FitzJohn is dead!"

Everyone fell deadly silent, and turned toward the man who had shouted. Clad in simple clothes, though of good quality, he seemed to be a manservant of some sort. Hugh did not recognize him, but there were a few murmurs that seemed to indicate some in the assembly did. Maud had risen sharply, along with her half-brother, Earl Robert, and she walked through the crowd to face the one who had interrupted the festivities. Out of breath, the manservant had probably run on the way, and in his hand he held a bloodied dagger.

"Who is this man?" Gloucester asked bitingly.

"He is FitzJohn's manservant," someone in the crowd volunteered. "His name is Adrian Dellingher."

"I was," the manservant stammered. "I was his servant. But now he's..."

"Did you kill him?" Gloucester asked coldly.

Dellingher's eyes widened in horror. "What? Of course not!" He seemed to realize then that it was not a very polite way to answer a man second only to the Empress. "Forgive me, my lord," he murmured. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful."

Gloucester waved a hand in dismissal, clearly exasperated by the whole matter. "Enough with that! Since you seem intent on disturbing our evening, you might as well tell us the facts."

"Yes, my lord," the manservant nodded obediently as he finally caught his breath. "Master FitzJohn was working later than usual; he said he had papers to put in order, and I was free until tomorrow. So I came out to take a walk, speak with some friends..."

"Get to the point!" Earl Robert snapped impatiently.

"Yes, my lord," Adrian said stiffly. "When I came back, there was light in Master FitzJohn's room, so I thought I would see if he needed anything... but he did not answer when I knocked, so I grew worried, and I opened the door. I found him sprawled on the ground, this dagger driven into his heart!"

He brandished the dagger he was holding in his right hand. At that, some whispers and murmurs were heard, but Gloucester glared at the crowd. During all this, the Empress had remained silent, merely watching as her half brother led the interrogation.

"Silence!" Earl Robert growled, effectively hushing up the crowd, before he transferred his full attention back to Dellingher. "You are certain FitzJohn was dead? I swear, if he wasn't and you let him die on the floor..." For the first time, the Earl's voice betrayed his grief. FitzJohn had been his secretary and confidant, and although he could not afford to show any weakness, this death had clearly struck him.

"I am sure, my lord," Dellingher protested. "I would not have left him otherwise!"

Maud spoke at last. "You say this dagger was in his heart. Then all we have to do is find the owner, and we'll have the murderer."

"I know who the murderer is!" Adeney said clearly through his gritted teeth. "And he is in front of me!"

All eyes turned towards him and the man he was accusing: Hugh himself. Beringar's eyes widened in surprise.

"What?" he exclaimed, shocked that Adeney could believe him a murderer. Even though they had chosen different paths, they had been friends, before the war. Hugh had never hated Adeney for his choices, and he had thought the man would be at least as courteous with him. Wishful thinking, obviously. "I have not!" he protested, although he knew it was useless.

"Why do you accuse Lord Roberts of that most unholy deed?" Maud enquired. Oddly enough, she sounded almost bored by the whole thing. Or was she amused? It was hard to say. Her features betrayed little of her inner feelings.

"Roberts?" Adeney spat on the ground. "That is no Roberts! His name is Hugh Beringar of Maesbury, and he is the deputy sheriff of Shropshire, a loyal servant to King Stephen!"

Everybody gasped, as Hugh swore inwardly. His cover was blown, and more than blown. Oh, yes, he was the right man for the job, was that what Stephen had said? The King was going to kill him...

Well, that was, if Gloucester did not do it first. The Earl looked positively murderous.

"A spy?" he hissed in cold rage. "So you killed FitzJohn for his knowledge of our plans!?"

"I did not kill FitzJohn!" Hugh repeated, as calmly as he could, although he felt anger boiling inside him as well.

"Did you not?" Adeney said mockingly. "And I notice you don't deny your being a spy! Besides, it's easy enough to be sure. I see you have an empty sheath at your belt - do you happen to have lost your weapon? Give me this dagger, lad."

He snatched the bloodied dagger from Dellingher's hands and cut the empty sheath free from Hugh's belt, then raised it for everyone to see. The dagger and the sheath matched perfectly. Beringar bit his lower lip angrily; he had forgotten about his stolen dagger.

"It is indeed my dagger," he admitted - there was little point in denying it. "But that does not mean I killed FitzJohn."

"Oh, really?" Adeney laughed painfully. "I also noticed how you came back into this room only seconds before Adrian Dellingher arrived. So where have you been all this time you weren't here, Master Beringar?"

"I was seeing Lady Stockley back to the New Inn; she can vouch for me on that count."

"Oh, I'm sure she would." Adeney seemed determined to have Hugh guilty, for he continued, "But after you brought her back to her room, you had leisure to go to Master FitzJohn's room and kill him."

"That's enough!" Earl Robert interrupted. "We'll see the long and the short of it. For now, Master Beringar, or whatever his name is, will be kept prisoner, and shall he be proven guilty, I swear he will hang!"

At this point, Hugh did not have much of a choice. He knew that running away would only make his guilt plainer in the eyes of Empress Maud and her court. But he had been found out as a spy, and even if he was not convicted for murder, he would be as a spy. That he could not afford. Fortunately, he had not had the time to go very far before Dellingher's arrival, and the door was only metres away from him. Without a warning, he suddenly sprung into action and knocked Adeney aside before making a dash for the door. He reached it before anyone had time to react, and disappeared in the night. However, the men inside the room were not long to run after him, and he heard their footsteps behind him as he ran blindly forward.

Hugh did not know the town very well, and soon enough he had no idea where he was, but some of his pursuers at least were still after him. As he was passing a particularly dark street, he turned suddenly to his right, and most of the men still chasing him kept going straight forward. Gasping for breath, Beringar staggered to the other end of the narrow street he had taken, walking quickly instead of running. He was not sure he could run for much longer anyway.

He took the next street on the left, hoping to reach the River Severn; but at the very moment when he thought he was safe from his pursuers, at least for the time being, he came face to face with two of them.

"Here he is!" one of them shouted.

In this narrow street and so close to the two noblemen chasing him, Hugh could not draw his sword; it would be more of a hindrance than anything else. And he did not have his dagger, since Adeney had kept it as proof of his guilt. That was not the case with the other two, whoever they were, and they drew their own daggers with dire smiles. Beringar grabbed his cloak and threw it in the face of the closer man, while he dashed at the second to disarm him. They had not expected someone weaponless to attack so boldly, and the younger, who was hardly twenty years old, let his dagger slip from his hand and onto the ground when Hugh's fist slammed into his jaw, before he fell, senseless. But meanwhile, the other man had extricated himself from the cloak, and he drove his dagger in Beringar's left side; Hugh howled in pain, but he managed to pull the blade out from his wound and hit his foe with the hilt. The man stepped back, tripped over his friend's unconscious body, and fell, hitting his head in the process.

"Sleep well," Hugh muttered as he reeled away.

Each breath hurt, and so did walking, but he had to get away before his other pursuers caught up with him. He was not even sure they would grant him as much as a fair trial, not to mention the fact that the evidence against him was overwhelming. He could be sure of only one thing; he had not killed FitzJohn. But who had, and how could he prove it with the whole town screaming for his head? No, he should not think about that. For now, he needed to hide. And that was not going to be easy.

The River Severn was west, and if he could cross it, he would be out of the town. He would have more chances to hide if he managed to get there. Going back to the abbey was out of the question, of course; he would not involve Cadfael in this. Hopefully, no one would have made the connection. After all, Brother Rhys was not supposed to know whom he had been travelling with. He just hoped Cadfael would not do anything rash... And how much further could the Severn be?

He leant back against a wall. Far and nearby, he could hear the shouts of the men hunting his hide. Well, they would not find him if he could help it... If he could. His head was spinning, and he felt lukewarm blood trickle down his side.

"My best tunic, ruined..." he muttered to himself.

"If I was you, I would first worry for myself, Hugh Beringar," a clear, high-pitched voice said behind him.

He turned his head to see the person who had spoken, knowing he probably would no longer have the strength to run away. But what he saw, he had not expected. She was there, not ten paces away, looking at him quietly. A face he would never forget. After all, they might have shared the same bed.

"Godith," he breathed.

"That's right," she nodded. "Although my name is Godith Blund, now."

"Blund?" Hugh mumbled weakly. Where had he heard this name? His vision was blurring, now, and soon enough, he fell unconscious to the ground.


	6. Unexpected Encounter

**Chapter 6**

* * *

During Prime, to his never-ending shame, Cadfael found himself increasingly distracted. It was not that the prior was especially boring, or anything of the sort (not to mention he could hardly be worse than Robert, anyway). But the monk could not help but worry, for Hugh Beringar had not come back since their parting the previous evening. At Matins first, and then at Lauds, Cadfael had checked his room, which remained despairingly empty, and although he tried to reason with himself - after all, Hugh could have been delayed for many reasons - he did not quite manage to convince himself. Yet, there was little he could do but wait. So he stood through Prime, and tried to focus his mind on the psalms Brother Prior was reading. 

"_Quicumque vult salvus esse... septies in die laudem dixi tibi..."_

When it was time, Cadfael murmured the sanctioned words along with the other brothers, but he hardly heard them, reciting more out of habit than anything else. It was a deep relief when the end of the office came, but then Cadfael found himself idle. He could have found something to do, like helping Brother Esmond with his patients, but he knew he would hardly be able to focus on that, so instead he walked in the direction of Father Bertolf's room, to ask his authorization to leave the abbey for the day. He did not have to ask, but the habit was deeply ingrained in him now - besides, he had no reason _not _to ask, and he wanted to act as naturally as possible.

However, he was just entering the corridor that led to the Abbot's room, when the door of said room opened, and someone stepped out. Cadfael could see only his back, for he was still speaking with Father Bertolf, but he could tell the man was probably a knight or a squire, with a sword at his belt. Taller than the monk, he had black hair, but only when he eventually closed the door behind him and turned around, did Cadfael recognize him. The monk's eyes widened in astonishment, and he opened his mouth slightly, although he found himself unable to speak.

I should have expected that, he thought. Then again, what were the odds...

The knight had also seen Cadfael, and his face mirrored the monk's in a rather comical way. Astonishment, mixed with genuine pleasure, as though he was meeting with an old friend, instead of a man he had seen but two or three times in his whole life.

"Brother Cadfa..." he started with a wide smile, before his mind caught up with his heart, and the words died on his lips as he realized what the monk's presence in Gloucester might mean.

"Olivier de Bretagne..." Cadfael said in a whisper, trying to control the turmoil of his feelings. And it was indeed his son, only this time he was clad as a nobleman, radiating with chivalry, and the monk felt his heart swell with pride, aching that he had to hide it. The younger man's hawkish eyes, as sharp as ever, had widened in surprise as he stared at Cadfael, obviously not expecting this encounter any more than the monk himself.

Olivier's astonishment quickly switched to concern, and he strode to Cadfael. "We can't speak here," he said.

"Yes, yes, you're right," the monk nodded as he steadied himself. He was too old for this kind of surprises. Someday, his heart would fail him, if this continued. "This way."

He took his son to the gardens, the same gardens that had probably heard many secrets in the centuries of their existence. At this hour, the other monks were going about their business, none of which included being there, so they were quite safe to speak.

"What are you doing here?" Olivier hissed, as soon as they were out of everyone's hearing range.

"Well, I..." Cadfael started defensively, but his son held an appeasing hand to silence him.

"No, forgive me, Brother. I shouldn't have been so rude. And I know, with good reason, that you do not take sides in this war. Or do you?"

Cadfael sighed and looked at a bare rosebush, to his right. He could not look at his son, face to face, and lie to him outright. Hide the truth, yes, for the peace of both their souls. But no more deceit. He could not stand it. His silence was enough to tell Olivier all he needed to know.

"But _why_, Brother! I thought you wanted no part in all this!"

"I don't," Cadfael said wearily. "Unfortunately, we don't always have a choice. And my monastery does live under King Stephen's rule."

"I should have known," Olivier said bitterly. "As soon as I heard about Beringar. But I believed - I wanted to believe you were above that."

"Beringar? What do you mean?"

"What, you don't know about it?" Surprise showed on the knight's face. "Rumour has it that yesterday evening he murdered Alan FitzJohn, Robert of Gloucester's first secretary."

"What!?" Thunderstruck, Cadfael stared at his son. "How could he be accused of that?"

"From your reaction, I take it Beringar is here indeed," Olivier commented dryly, "and that you have kown about it. He probably was a spy - as you are, no doubt. And if FitzJohn surprised him trying to steal some papers... well, maybe that was self-defence. But neither the Empress nor Earl Robert will care about that."

The anger and sense of betrayal were obvious in Olivier's voice, as was the pain he felt over it, and it struck Cadfael more badly than he would have thought. He craved to scream out the truth, be done with it, but he could not, for his son's sake. How could he burden him with this sort of a father, and all of his problems? No, Olivier had flown off on his own, and he did no longer need a paternal figure. Besides, that could not erase the fact that Cadfael was indeed there as a spy, as much as he despised the thought.

"Olivier..." he started tiredly, then trailed off, unsure of what to say. "You've met Hugh Beringar, so you must know, as well as I do, that he would never have murdered."

"So you say. Yet, his dagger was left in FitzJohn's heart, buried to the hilt. How do you explain that?"

"His... dagger?" Cadfael frowned, as he remember his last exchange with Hugh, right before he left.

"...Besides, that's not the problem. I've lost my favourite dagger."

Cadfael nodded as he noticed the empty sheath at Hugh's belt. "Do you think it was stolen?"

"No," he shook his head. "If a robber had come in my room, he'd have taken my gold as well..."

"But... his dagger was stolen," Cadfael murmured loud enough for Olivier to hear him, deep in thoughts.

"Or so he said," Olivier growled. "Alan FitzJohn was a good man, and also my friend. And his murderer shall be punished."

"I quite agree with you," Cadfael said firmly. "But I am certain Hugh Beringar didn't kill him."

"Are you? Even if it was in self-defence –, do you think he wouldn't have defended himself?"

"Olivier! You know me. You know I care first and foremost for the truth!"

"Perhaps," the knight relented. There was a silence, before either of them spoke again. At last, Olivier nodded shortly. "I will at least give him the benefit of the doubt, Cadfael, since you insist. I do remember he let me go when he should have arrested me, and he did all he could to help Yves and Ermina Hugonin, even though they were related to an enemy of the King. As you did. I shall grant you both the same respect, and pay back some of what I owe you."

"You don't owe us anything," Cadfael said gently. "We only acted as we saw fit, given the circumstances."

"Which is why I myself have trouble accepting that Hugh Beringar would be capable of such an act," Olivier admitted at last. "Although I wouldn't have believed him capable of coming here as a spy either."

"He was given an order."

"Yes, I suppose so," the knight sighed tiredly. He probably had not slept very well, following the murder of a man who was also his friend. "I have to warn you, though, the whole town is after him."

"He wasn't arrested, then?"

"I thought you'd have known by now. He fled - which only convinced everybody further of his guilt - and he has not been seen since, except by the old Lord Grisham and his squire. Lord Grisham says he wounded him, but Beringar managed to get away, after he somehow knocked the two out."

"So he is somewhere in town, injured, with everybody screaming for his blood?" Cadfael held his head in his hands. He felt a headache coming.

"Yes, that's about right."

"When I said I couldn't leave Hugh on his own, I didn't mean it quite _so _literally," the monk grimaced. That earned him a low chuckle from his son. "We need to find him."

"How?" Olivier shrugged. "Everybody's looking for him, why should we be more successful?"

"Because he won't be hiding from us," the monk pointed out.

"From you, no. From me, certainly. Besides, he won't know that's us until we are in sight, and to be in sight we'd have to know where he is, to begin with."

"But he'll probably try to contact me," Cadfael said, although there was a great deal of uncertainty in his voice.

"Perhaps," Olivier granted reluctantly.

Neither of them said what both inwardly thought. Maybe Hugh would not try to contact Cadfael, either because he did not want to endanger him, or... or because he was not able to. After all, he was wounded, at least according to Lord Grisham - who had no reason whatsoever to lie - and it was the middle of December. It had been snowing, recently. Cadfael tried not to picture his friend, lying in the snow, losing blood... but the more he tried not to think about it, the more, of course, he did.

"Don't worry," his son said gruffly, trying to hide his own fears as well as reassure the man towards whom he felt a filial love. "If he hasn't been found by now, it means he has most likely found a shelter."

"Yes," Cadfael said softly. "I suppose."

"Brother..." the young knight hesitated, then went on determinedly. "We want the same thing - to find out who murdered FitzJohn, and to see justice be done. We need to work together."

"But..." the monk began, reluctant to have his son involved in this nasty affair. It might be dangerous, and if Olivier was to be injured because of him...

A frown answered his concern. "There is no but. I will chase this murderer, with or without your help. I would rather we work together, though." The knight grinned. "You have a keen eye and sharp wit - and I saw that first hand."

Cadfael bowed slightly his head in defeat. There was no arguing, then. If his son was only half as stubborn as himself, there was no way he would manage to dissuade him. "Fine, then," the monk eventually nodded. In spite of his concern over Olivier's safety, his son's help was most welcome, given the circumstances. "Do you think Yves and Ermina...?"

"I don't want them involved in this," Olivier replied adamantly. "I risk my neck in full knowledge of the facts. But they are too young. They would seek to help, generously and foolishly, but that's too dangerous. They are but children, Brother!"

"That's not what I meant!" Cadfael protested. "Of course they shouldn't be involved. I was going to ask if they would try anything. If everybody is talking about Hugh and the murder of FitzJohn, they must have heard of it as well - and they're not stupid. They'll put the pieces together."

"Not necessarily. They have hardly met Beringar, it was years ago, and your name wasn't mentioned. By the way - I suppose you don't go by your real name here?"

"No," Cadfael admitted sheepishly. "I'm known as Brother Rhys."

"All right," his son replied. "Then I'll ask for Brother Rhys, should I need to speak with you. Now, I'll leave and look for Beringar. FitzJohn's corpse will be sent to the abbey soon enough, to be prepared for burial. Perhaps you could have a look at him then, I know you have a keen eye for clues and dead bodies reveal more to you than to anyone else. Try to find something that could lead us to the murderer - whoever he is."

"Rely on me," the monk said with more confidence than he really felt. "If there's anything on FitzJohn's body, I will find it."

Olivier cast a glance at the sun. "I must go, now. I have been gone too long as it is. I'll let you know, as soon as I find something out. And I'll contact you shortly, in case you discovered something. Good bye, Brother."

"Good bye, Olivier," Cadfael murmured. He liked to say his son's name, although the French syllables rolled uneasily on his tongue.

He watched the tall, proud knight as he was leaving the gardens, and after he had gone, stayed behind for a few minutes, alone and thoughtful. So many things had happened, since he and Hugh had left Shrewsbury... were they all linked, or was it all a matter of coincidences? That, they would probably know when they found out who had murdered FitzJohn. That thought left Cadfael uneasy and anxious. He refused to imagine Hugh guilty, but... there was this small, nagging doubt, tugging relentlessly at his mind. What if? What if it _had _been self-defence? But no, the dagger _had _been stolen. It was proof enough that Hugh was not guilty. He would not have lied to Cadfael.

But what if the King gave him secret orders? What if he was _ordered _to lie? What then?

No, Cadfael's imagination was getting the better of him. He had seen proof enough that Hugh was no puppet craving to do the King's bidding. Beringar would always do what he deemed right. He had proved it the day he had let Godith leave, foregoing any reward Stephen might have promised him. No, Hugh was not for sale, and no order would make him commit murder.

With this comforting thought in mind, Cadfael walked back to the abbey's chapel, where he was greeted by quite a commotion. FitzJohn's body had just been brought in, and the brethren's fascination was mixed with awe and disgust at the sight of a dead man. Most of them had never looked so closely into the ugly face of death, protected as they were in the cloister. Thus, when Father Bertolf asked for a volunteer to prepare the corpse for the last rites, no one fought with Cadfael over this dubious honour. The monk saw the Abbot's relief that he had actually found somebody to volunteer.

"Thank you, Brother Rhys," Bertolf said. "We appreciate your commitment to a monastery that isn't your own."

"All monasteries are my own," Cadfael replied. "I'm glad to be of help."

Bertolf nodded shortly, while Henry of Winchester looked more closely at the monk. Cadfael's blue eyes met the dark brown of the Bishop's, and his gaze did not waver. Winchester's eyes briefly shone with curiosity.

"You won't be disturbed while you tend to the body," Bertolf added. "You shall have as much time as you need."

With these words the abbot left, so quickly that Cadfael suspected he had not often had the occasion to see a dead man, either. Restraining an ironic smile, the monk waited until everybody had gone before he came closer to the body and examined it carefully. FitzJohn was rather young - in his late twenties at the most - with short blond hair. His eyes had been closed, but there was still a look of mild surprise etched on his features - as if something had startled him, but he had not had time to react before he was killed. And that was not surprising; judging from the wound in his chest, he had died very quickly. Whoever had struck him had done so in cold blood, so to speak, and certainly not in a state of panic or hurry. The blow showed an uncanny precision.

It was impossible to be sure whether the killer was a man or a woman, although Cadfael thought he was more likely to be a man; to strike this efficiently required at least some training in the handling of weapons, something that was unlikely in a woman... then, almost in spite of himself, he thought of Lady Stockley and the long knife she had handled almost nonchalantly, while fighting for her life. He cursed inwardly, then winced. Some more penance in perspective. He should have asked Olivier for more details about the facts, but that would have to wait until his son came back. In the meantime, he should better forget about all wild theories and focus on gathering more clues.

But he did not find much. There was no wound other than the one on FitzJohn's chest, neither any blood under his fingernails - which meant he had not clawed at his killer, so it was useless to look for someone with marks on his face. The secretary's weapons were both there, sheathed and unbloodied, which proved he had had no time to strike back, or even try to defend himself. The only thing of some interest Cadfael found was in the dead man's tightly clenched left fist; a few strands of something that looked like hair. Silver and brown hair, of a very peculiar colour. With a frown, Cadfael looked at them closely. They were short - a man's hair? He put them in a small wooden box, careful not to lose them - it would have been nearly impossible to find them again.

There was nothing more to find, and Cadfael quickly finished preparing the body. When he was done, he left the room, and asked one of the brothers to send word to Father Bertolf. Then, idle, he wandered back to the garden. Being outside helped him think. He had already missed Terce and Sext while taking care of the body, and he left the garden only to go to None. At the end of the office, however, he had the pleasant surprise of seeing Olivier waiting for him.

"Brother Rhys!" the knight called with affectation, unwilling to look too familiar in front of the whole abbey. "I was told you took care of FitzJohn's body. He was a friend of mine, and I'd appreciate it if you would take me to see him."

"Of course!" Cadfael replied, playing the part. "I trust Father Abbot will give his authorization..."

Said Father Abbot was just going out of the chapel, with Winchester, and he curtly nodded his agreement to the request. The two men entered the room, empty but for FitzJohn in his last rest. Olivier strode to the corpse, and slightly lifted the white shroud to see his late friend's face one last time. It hurt Cadfael to see his son's grief. That was only one more reason to find out who the murderer was.

"Did you find him?" the monk asked.

He saw the answer on Olivier's face before he even opened his mouth. "No. I'm sorry, Brother. But I'll keep looking. As long as he's not been found, there is still hope."

"Yes, indeed," Cadfael murmured, disappointed nevertheless.

"What about you? What did Alan's body tell you?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," the monk sighed. "The death was caused by a sole blow to the heart. The killer was probably strong and familiar with the handling of a dagger, for the blade was driven in deeply and exactly where he intended. FitzJohn didn't have time to call for help - he didn't even have time to try to defend himself. See, there is surprise on his face, as though he didn't expect to be attacked. It probably means the killer was someone he knew, and he didn't think he had anything to fear from him."

"That's just a conjecture," Olivier protested. "And even then, it leaves a lot of suspects. Alan knew many people, and he didn't have any reason to expect a murder attempt on himself, here in Gloucester, even if he didn't know the man who came to kill him."

"True enough," Cadfael admitted. "But in his right hand, I found this." He showed the strands of hair to his son. "It seems he grasped his killer's hair and tore these out."

Olivier examined the silver and brown hair. "So we'd be looking for a man in his mid-forties to late-fifties?"

"Possibly, yes," the monk nodded. "But it does leave many suspects."

"But not Beringar."

"Not Hugh, that's right. Then again, I never thought he could be the culprit."

"He's your friend."

"That he is, and I know him well enough," Cadfael replied adamantly.

Olivier raised an appeasing hand. "I'm not accusing him. I do hold him in high respect, and I'm glad he doesn't seem to be the murderer. But you won't convince Robert of Gloucester or anyone else with so little evidence."

"I know," Cadfael sighed. "I know. But that's a start. I meant to ask you, can you give me a bit more details about the murder, how it was committed?"

"I can tell you what I know. FitzJohn was working later than usual, and had sent his manservant, Adrian Dellingher, away. When the manservant came back, there was still light in his master's room, so he came in to see if he needed anything. He found FitzJohn in the state he is in now, except with Beringar's dagger in his heart. Dellingher ran at once to Gloucester's mansion, to tell him of this murder. Adeney immediately accused Beringar and revealed his true identity. Your friend protested his innocence, but of course no one believe him - after all, he was a spy. So he fled, and you know what happened then."

"Cannot anyone vouch for Hugh? Where was he when it happened?"

"According to him, he was seeing Lady Stockley back to the New Inn. But he _would _have had time to murder Alan before he came back to Gloucester's."

"I see," Cadfael murmured. "If only we knew when exactly FitzJohn was killed..." he remained thoughtful a few moments before he resumed. "How old is Dellingher?"

"In his late thirties, as far as I know."

"And his hair?"

Olivier critically eyed the strand of hair he was still holding. "A shade too dark, I think, but it's difficult to be sure."

"He had the occasion," Cadfael pointed out. "But what could be his motives? Not theft, at any rate. FitzJohn's rings and weapons weren't stolen."

"There seems to be no reason for anyone to kill FitzJohn," Olivier murmured. "Save for Beringar, but we have both established he isn't guilty."

"Just because we can't see the reason, that doesn't mean it's not there," Cadfael said wisely. "Maybe you should try to learn more about this Adrian Dellingher. And about FitzJohn as well; it might help find out why he was murdered."

"I'll do what I can," Olivier nodded, then he gave the strand of hair back to the monk. "You'd better keep that; I have a tendency to lose everything. I must go now, but I'll keep in touch. And I'll keep looking for Beringar."

He left, and Cadfael put the shroud back in its place, since it had been slightly rumpled by his son when he had looked at FitzJohn's face. There was nothing more to do for the moment, so he left as well. It would soon be time for Vespers, and he should go see Brother Esmond, too. He had promised to give him a hand with some medicines.


	7. Old Friends

**A/N : **A few format problems edited. Thanks to Rosemary For Remembrance for pointing it out, and for the nice reviews. And thanks to everyone who reviewed.

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Hugh regained consciousness slowly. First, he felt something hard against his back - a mattress, it seemed. It was too soft to be the ground, and not cold enough either. For some reason, it felt surprising. Why was he not on the ground? His thoughts were sluggish and scrambled, or so it felt, but apart from that, things were not too bad. He was pleasantly warm. There was just this stabbing pain in his left side, that left him gasping when he tried to move, but when he did not it was tolerable, more or less. Eyes still closed, he waited to remember what had happened; then it came back to him. He had been accused of having killed FitzJohn, which he was quite sure he had not done. After that, he had fled, and... Godith! 

Hugh's eyes snapped open when he remembered her, and he looked around him, almost expecting to see her nearby. But no. He was alone, in a room that looked like a storehouse, or an old barn, or stables. Actually, it was probably one of the aforementioned three, although he could not be sure which. There was a smell of straw, and vague remnants of the odour of horses, but it seemed the building had not been used in a long time. It was not in a very good state, either. Light went through the wall planks, along with a chilling wind, although Hugh hardly felt the cold, thanks to the thick blankets thrown over him.

He had been stripped to the waist, and his wound had been dressed with strips of cloth, previously white and now stained red. His blood, he realized with an odd detachment. Without the bandage, he might have bled to death - he owed Godith his life. An ironic smile came to his lips at the idea - not that he minded the thought, but he had never imagined he would find himself in this position.

By his bedside, he noticed some food, probably left there for him. He was hungry, but the mere idea of eating made him feel sick, so he did not touch it. Instead, he tried to get to his feet, although the pain made him hiss more than once. The whole town was probably looking for him, and if he was found here... the building probably belonged to Godith, or her family, and he could not afford to have her accused of sheltering him. He would not allow that - he had once sworn to protect her, and even though he was no longer her fiancé, he still felt bound by the oath he had taken.

Amusingly, he had never quite realized how pleasant walking without pain was. He managed to stand, but his legs wobbled, and each step was a struggle of will. Well, at least he was moving. He found his tunic and bliaud folded near the bed. They were a sorry mess, stained with blood, torn, most likely unsalvageable, but he had nothing else, so he put them on - it would at least keep him reasonably warm. He cast a mournful glance at the blankets on the bed, but he could not go out with these if he wanted to escape notice. Not that he would really melt into the crowd anyway, the state he was in, but no need to make it worse. Finally, he fastened his belt around his waist - in the name of God, had his sword ever felt so heavy? - and headed for the door, as swiftly as he managed - that is to say, not very fast. But when he reached the threshold, the door opened to let someone through. A man in his mid-twenties entered and stared at the deputy sheriff of Shropshire, eyes wide as he saw him about to leave.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing!?"

Startled by this sudden entrance, Hugh took a step back, looking at the newcomer hard, as he tried to make out his features. He knew this voice, even though he had met the man only once previously... He recognized him. Torold Blund. How could he forget him, when he had taken Hugh's ex-fiancée away - with Beringar's blessing?

"I have to go," he said, although he knew that probably would not convince the young squire, after he had taken so much trouble to help him. Yet, if he had done so only for Godith...

"You're not going anywhere," Torold replied with a snort. "Besides, you couldn't walk three steps before you collapsed."

"My presence here puts you in danger," Hugh argued, not as strongly as he would have liked. Then again, he had felt better and the bed was shamefully appealing.

"I know," Torold said simply. "But you, Master Beringar, risked your neck and gave up whatever the King had promised you for Godith, not to mention FitzAlan's treasure. We haven't forgotten what we owe to you and Brother Cadfael."

"But I'm wanted in the whole town. If I was to be found, at least you shouldn't be involved, or charged with sheltering a murderer."

Torold's features hardened slightly. "Did you kill FitzJohn?"

Well, the question would probably have been asked sooner or later. Hugh's dark eyes met the squire's light grey. "I did not."

The other man shrugged. "Well, good enough for me."

"I am still a spy," Hugh said, feeling increasingly frustrated. Did Blund not realize how dangerous this was?

"I was FitzAlan's squire, trying to smuggle out a treasure worth thousands of pounds from right under King Stephen's nose," Torold shrugged. "No, Master Beringar, you won't get rid of us that easily."

Having reached his limits after staying up that long, Hugh reeled slightly, and he might have fallen, had Torold not held him up. That left the squire the winner of the argument, since Beringar obviously could not take another step on his own. All Hugh could do was surrender, and he let Torold take him back to the bed, lost in a haze of pain. The squire gently helped him to lie down, and Beringar could not help but let out a sigh of relief when he was finally able to relax, and the tension on his wound lessened. It was not the first time he had been injured, far from it, but one did not get used to the pain that easily.

"You've started to bleed again," Torold muttered unhappily. "Stop moving." Hugh had been trying to raise his head and see how bad it was, but the squire pressed a firm hand on his chest. "Be easy now. Godith will be here soon - by the way, did you know we married last year?"

Hugh shook his head weakly. He had not known. "Congratulations," he said sincerely.

"Thank you. Anyway, I'm afraid neither of us knows much about the fine art of healing, but Godith will bring Brother Cadfael and he'll know what to do..."

"What?" Suddenly much more awake, Hugh tried to sit up, but Torold was still firmly holding him back. "Brother Cadfael? How did you know...?" Beringar was quite certain he had not given his friend away, even unwillingly, but how could Godith and her husband know about the monk's presence in Gloucester?

"Oh, please," Torold sniggered. "The two of you are inseparable. We heard about you from Olivier de Bretagne, after he brought back the two Hugonin children, and the tale he told us was quite entertaining, really."

"Does Olivier know I'm here?" Hugh trusted Godith and Torold, but he was not so sure about Olivier. After all, it would be the knight's duty to inform the Empress and her half brother. Then again, if he was a friend of Torold and Godith, he probably would not put them in danger, but that did not mean he would not give Hugh away.

"No, as far as I know," Torold shrugged. "We haven't seen him recently, truth to tell."

Beringar leant back in relief. "Good. It's better that way." Suddenly, he felt very weak and sick, and he closed his eyes tightly to fight off the pain. A cool hand touched his forehead lightly and brushed away a few strands of hair.

"Don't worry," said a faraway voice. "Brother Cadfael will be here soon."

* * *

It was after the end of Terce, two days after FitzJohn's death, that Cadfael saw Olivier once again, waiting for him outside the chapel. Judging from his son's grim face, there was no good news. Which did not mean there was any bad news, either. Well, hopefully not, at any rate...

They both headed for the garden, discreetly, and pointedly ignored each other, as though it was merely by chance that they were going the same way. They turned at the corner of the chapel, and Cadfael sat on a stone bench, resting his stiff legs with a soft groan. They were now out of sight, and they would see anyone coming near them long before the intruder was in hearing range, so they were safe enough.

"Anything new?" Olivier asked immediately.

Cadfael shook his head ruefully. "Not really, no. But inside the cloister, I'm afraid there aren't that many clues to be found."

"What about the theft of the dagger?" Olivier suggested.

"Yes, that's my next step. I'll question the porter, see who came in here the day FitzJohn was murdered. What did you find out?" The monk glanced at his son hopefully.

"Beringar is nowhere to be found, so far," the knight said with a shake of his head. "Which is better news than him being prisoner in Gloucester's jail."

"Yes, I suppose," Cadfael sighed gloomily. "But I'd like to know at least whether he's dead or alive."

"We'll find him, sooner or later," Olivier said in an attempt to cheer him up. "At any rate, I've been delving into Dellingher's past, and I've found nothing of interest, nothing that could motivate a murder. _But_, it seems that Alan left him a nice amount of money."

The monk pricked up his ears at this interesting piece of news. "Really? Did Dellingher know about it? And when did FitzJohn include him in his will?"

"I have no idea," his son admitted. "I'll try to find out."

"Is that all?" Cadfael enquired. "What about FitzJohn?"

"Well..." Olivier hesitated. "He was very secretive about himself. I talked with a few of his friends - the subject wasn't hard to find." He smiled bitterly, but went on. "I tried to find out who'd benefit from his death. But he didn't have many enemies."

"Yet he did have some?"

"Who doesn't have any enemies? Not even you I'd wager."

"True enough," Cadfael had to admit mournfully. "But did they hate him enough to kill him?"

"That's the problem," Olivier conceded. "They had a lot to lose, and little to gain, from a murder attempt. It would require a very deep hatred to act in spite of that."

"But implicating Hugh nearly grants them immunity, doesn't it?"

"_If_ he's proven guilty."

"So far, the Empress seems rather convinced of his guilt."

"Well, perhaps," the younger man granted reluctantly. "But still, I doubt anyone hated Alan enough to kill him, not to mention do so right under the nose of the Empress and Gloucester. Besides, why now?"

Cadfael absent-mindedly drummed on the bench. "Does he have any family?"

"I can tell you he wasn't married, and he didn't have any children. Or if he did, it wasn't common knowledge. It's strange. I tried to find out who his father was, but I was unable to. No one appears to know, or if they do, they don't tell. If I didn't know better, I'd believe he didn't have any parents."

"But you do know better," Cadfael said fondly. "It might be important, you should keep looking."

"I shall," his son nodded.

"And - I thought about it during Terce..."

"Brother!" Olivier protested in mock indignation. "What of prayers, psalms and higher thoughts?"

Cadfael chuckled wryly. "I shall do penance. Or perhaps I should give Hugh penance, since he was the reason for my lack of concentration."

"Give me penance?" Olivier opened his eyes wide.

"Not you, Hu..." The monk trailed off as the young knight sniggered, giving himself away. "Oh, you're impossible! Anyway, we need to question Dellingher. He was remarkably terse when he explained the circumstances of his discovery of his master's corpse. For instance, was the body still warm? Was the blood already clotting?"

The knight choked. "Brother, I'm afraid these are not the kind of details a man pays attention to when he finds the dead body of his master."

"It might be important," Cadfael insisted. "It would allow us to know with relative certainty the time of the death. And even if Dellingher didn't pay close attention, he might remember those details when asked."

"If he's guilty, he might as well lie."

"He might," the monk admitted. "And we should be wary of anything he tells us, but his answers ought to be revealing in either case."

"Fine, fine! You win, Brother," Olivier relented, rolling his eyes. "I will ask him. But if I make an enemy of him and a fool of myself, I shall hold you responsible."

Cadfael smiled, laughter underlying his voice. "You certainly may, my son." His heart swelled with pride when he was able to call Olivier his son, even if the younger man did not know how true it was.

By mutual consent they rose from the cold stone bench, having said all they needed to, and headed for the gates of the abbey, in silence. They did not dare to speak to each other too much in front of everyone, even though the courtyard appeared to be nearly deserted. When Olivier left, he did not say goodbye, nor looked behind him, but he strode away determinedly. Cadfael looked at the porter as he closed the gates behind the young knight. Now was as good a time as any to question the man.

The brother porter was an elderly man, known as Brother Harold. He always stayed in his small room, near the gates, except of course during the offices. His position required it, but he did not seem to mind the loneliness. However, this seclusion also meant he did not talk much to anyone, and welcomed any occasion to speak and gossip with a patient listener full of goodwill, such as Cadfael. After a few minutes of pleasant chatter, Cadfael brought the conversation where he wanted.

"Being the porter, you must know everything about the people who come in and out of the abbey," he said offhandedly.

"Oh, yes," Brother Harold said and straightened, trying to look as well-informed as Cadfael suggested he was. "Nothing escapes me!"

"Actually, I was wondering - and I'm sure you are the only one who would be able to inform me..." a little flattery could do no harm, "...two days ago, did any stranger come in here?"

"Two days ago, eh?" Harold repeated. "No, I don't think so. No one entered, except for our brothers who had duties outside the cloister."

Cadfael was disappointed. "I see," he said slowly. It now seemed likely that the thief, whoever he was, had not entered through the gates. But how then? Over the walls, without being seen?

"There was someone else who went out, though," the porter added, as though moved by a second thought.

"Who?" the monk asked eagerly.

"The Bishop of Winchester was called by the Empress and Earl Robert. He stayed out for over three hours," Harold said, proud of the accuracy of his information.

Cadfael restrained a jump and an exclamation with difficulty. Bishop Henry of Winchester!? He tried to picture the Bishop stealing the dagger, but his mind failed to provide him with a suitable image. He had never spoken with Winchester, but he felt with certainty he could not be the thief. He was too... _lordly? You're speaking of a man who changed side nearly three times in this war, already!_

Yet, all questions of the Bishop's likeliness to have stolen the dagger or not set aside, one thing remained certain; he did not have any reason to kill FitzJohn. Unless it was a matter of politics? But even in this case, Cadfael could not believe Winchester capable of committing murder to achieve his ends. Lie, use tricks, even plot, but murder? He was the Holy Pope's legate!

Then, another thought came to the monk's mind. Winchester had not necessarily stolen the dagger himself. He could have carried it without knowing it. But that meant there must have been an accomplice, for the dagger could not have hidden itself on Winchester's person of its own free will! Cadfael pictured the absurdity of the dagger on two little feet, concealing itself in the Bishop's clothes, then shook his head to dismiss the surreal thought. Really, he was much too imaginative for his own good, as Prior Robert often told him.

"But the Bishop didn't go out on his own, yes?" Cadfael asked the porter for good measure. "He had an escort?"

"Earl Robert sent one for him," Harold replied.

That was it then. The only one who had gone out and was not from the cloister was definitely the Bishop. Yes, Cadfael would have to talk with him. And most likely, it would not prove easy... The monk was about to take his leave when suddenly, someone pounded at the door. Harold hurried to open, and a young lady with long brown hair and beautiful blue eyes entered. Cadfael recognized her immediately - how could he forget his apprentice, the one apprentice who was not as clumsy as Oswin? She had changed a little, but he had seen her as a novice, then as a lady. He would always recognize her. She recognized him as well, and her features brightened. Only then did Cadfael realize how dangerous this encounter was for both of them. But Godith did not leave him time to react.

"Brother!" she exclaimed. "I have been told there is a new herbalist here - we are in need of his services. Can you tell me where he is?"

"I assume you're referring to me," Cadfael said cautiously. "How may I be of help, child?"

They were both all too aware of Brother Harold's open curiosity, and acted their roles just as in a carefully rehearsed play.

"Someone is in need of your services, Brother," Godith said respectfully, looking down as was proper for a woman in an abbey, although Cadfael knew how much it went against her strong spirit and will. "There is no time, please hurry - I'll explain later."

"Of course," the monk nodded immediately, happy to have a good excuse to leave the abbey without asking the Abbot's authorization. "I'll just go to my cell and get my medicines, then we can go."

She nodded, and he hurried back to his room, where he had left his herbs, balms and potions. Better to take them for appearances' sake, he thought, since this supposed need for his knowledge as an herbalist was probably just a way for Godith to speak with him in private. Having gathered everything he needed, he came back to the gates, ignoring his protesting back.

"I'm ready now," he said, a little out of breath.

He followed Godith out of the cloister, and they heard the sound of the gates closing behind them. At this hour, there were quite a lot of people in the streets, but the anonymity of the crowd was in a way safer for them. No one was paying attention to an elderly Benedictine and the young lady beside him.

"Godric! I mean, Godith," Cadfael exclaimed warmly. "You have grown!"

"Everybody tells me that," she smiled. "Father says it's because of my marriage."

"Marriage?" the monk marveled.

She poked him. "Don't pretend you didn't expect it! Now my name is Godith Blund."

"I did have a feeling this might happen," Cadfael admitted with a fatherly smile. "Congratulations! Any children yet?"

"Not yet," she replied with detachment, and the monk thought she did not seem very eager to have them. Then again, she was still very young, and in any case it was probably better for her health, and the babies', that she should not be pregnant for some time yet.

"Give my name to the eldest," he suggested teasingly.

She glared at him. "Poor child, if we did."

He tried to pretend he was offended, but he did not quite manage. Besides, there were more serious matters they needed to speak of. "How did you know I would be here?" he asked.

Godith shrugged. "Frankly, it was an easy guess."

"Not too easy, I hope!" the monk exclaimed in alarm.

The young lady shook her head with a reassuring smile. "That's because we know you too well, Brother. When we heard about Hugh Beringar..." she frowned as she said his name, as though remembering something unpleasant she had set aside for a moment. "Speaking of that, Brother..."

"...I suppose you had good reasons to take the risk to come to the abbey," Cadfael finished for her. "I'm listening, daughter."

"We know where Hugh Beringar is," she said gravely, her voice so low that the monk had to strain his ears to hear.

His eyes widened as he breathed in sharply, worry and relief flooding through him. "Where!?"

"I'm taking you there now," Godith said soothingly. "Don't worry, he's alive, although he'll probably have need of your acrid potions and stinking herbs."

"What kind of language is that, young lady!" Cadfael protested in mock indignation.

"Forgive me, Brother," she said, totally unrepentant. "But you can't deny you are among those who believe that the more unpleasant the remedy, the more efficient it is."

Knowing he could not win that argument, the monk settled for a dignified silence and a reproachful look. It would probably have been more convincing, however, had he not been smiling. At the very least, it allowed him to hide the tight worry he still felt deep inside. For Hugh, for Godith, for Olivier... all three were in danger, because of the mysterious man or woman who had orchestrated the murder of FitzJohn. Three excellent reasons to find said murderer and deliver him to the justice.

They walked for another ten to fifteen minutes before they reached the place Godith was taking Cadfael to. It was an old wooden building, not in a very good shape, located in a sparsely populated alley. It had probably been a barn or a stable at some point, but now it was no longer used, except perhaps when it was so cold outside that beggars would seek a shelter for the night. For the moment, though, it seemed to be uninhabited.

"This barn was built right behind our house," Godith murmured beside Cadfael. "There's a door inside that leads to our dining room. The main entrance of the house is on a street parallel to this lane. It was used formerly as a stable for the previous owner, and the servants slept there, too, but now it's abandoned."

"You hid him here?" the monk asked in surprise. "In your own house, so to speak? What if he was found!?"

She gave him a half smile. "Who would look for him there? I'm the daughter of the man who accused him and called him a murderer in front of the whole court!"

"I didn't know that."

"My father never quite forgave him for choosing the King's side, when he had been betrothed to me since childhood. But I don't think my father really understands that his friend's son has grown into a man now. Fulke Adeney knew the young Hugh Beringar, but he was never acquainted with Hugh Beringar of Maesbury, deputy sheriff of Shropshire, I'm afraid." There was disillusionment in Godith's voice when she mentioned her father.

Cadfael shook his head. "Well, let's not waste time."

He followed his guide inside the old barn. It was bare, save for some old straw -bundles that no one had bothered to get rid of when the barn was no longer used, and for a makeshift bed. Near the bed, Cadfael easily recognized Torold Blund - the squire had not changed much over time, and his eyes lit up when he saw the monk. When he moved, Cadfael saw the figure of his closest friend, pale, and his eyes closed.

"Brother!" Torold said warmly. "It's a pleasure to see you again, although the circumstances are not as pleasant as I would have wished."

"Yes, unfortunately," Cadfael sighed. "But I would be happy to see you anywhere, Master Blund. Now - we can talk later. How is he?" the monk glanced at Beringar's still form.

"He woke up a moment ago," Torold said. "You'll never guess - he tried to leave."

"He did?" Cadfael glared at Hugh, to little avail, since Beringar was not aware of it.

"Said his presence put us in danger," the squire shrugged. "Which is true. But the fool was in no state to walk anyway."

While Torold was talking, Cadfael had knelt beside his friend. He pushed the blankets away and removed the makeshift bandage Torold and Godith had clumsily wrapped around the wound to get a better look at it. It was deep, with black clotted blood and the first symptoms of an infection. It might be avoided, however, with a bit of luck.

"I'll need a bucket of hot water," the monk said absent-mindedly.

"I know," Godith said. "I have one ready, I'll fetch it."

She was back a moment later, with not only the requested bucket but also some clean rags. Cadfael nodded his thanks, and used the rags to clean the wound. It started to bleed afresh, and the monk frowned, for he had a feeling Hugh had lost enough blood as it was, but it soon stopped after he applied pressure around the injury. Then, he selected one of his most efficient balms against infection, glad to have really taken his remedies when Godith had called for him, and applied it generously. The wound looked actually worse with the sickly green mixture, but the balm's efficiency had been proven times and times again. Finally, the monk applied a new, clean bandage, discarding the old and bloodstained one. During all his ministrations, Godith and Torold stood silent, letting him focus on the task at hand.

"That's all I can do," Cadfael muttered. He lay his hand on Hugh's forehead. It was a bit warm, but that was to be expected. "He has a slight fever, nothing to worry about for now. If it gets worse, use this." The monk showed the couple a middle-sized glass vial, full of a brownish liquid.

Godith grimaced when she eyed it. "I'm glad I don't have to drink it."

Torold grinned as he remembered the time when Cadfael had been taking care of him, and _he _had had to drink the very same potion to ease his fever. It had been a long time ago, but he felt he would never really forget the foul aftertaste.

At this moment, Hugh stirred, then opened his eyes.


	8. A Strand Of Hair

**Chapter 8**

* * *

It felt as though he had closed his eyes only for a second, but then, Cadfael had been nowhere in sight, and now he was standing just in front of Hugh. Actually, just above him might be more accurate, for Beringar was still lying on his back. The stabbing pain in his left side had receded to a dull ache, although Hugh had a feeling it would be much worse if he attempted to move. He did not feel at all prone to trying; he was relatively comfortable, safe and warm, and Cadfael... Cadfael!? Still half-asleep, he had hardly reacted when he had first seen his friend, as though he expected the monk to be there to ease his distress. But now his brain had more or less caught up with the situation, and the last remnants of his numbness disappeared immediately.

However, Beringar did not have time to say anything. His friend knelt beside him, the monk's pale blue eyes shining in the half-light of the barn.

"How do you feel?"

Hugh laughed weakly, and regretted it almost immediately. It was _painful_. "Like someone who's been stabbed, I'd say," he commented wryly.

Cadfael shook his head in disapproval, but a smile played on his lips. "Well, you haven't lost your wits, so I'd say there is hope for you yet."

"I'm not going to die?" Beringar pretended to be surprised. "And here I was about to give this speech I've been rehearsing for _years_, without ever getting an occasion to..." he had to break off at this point. Even speaking hurt.

"Well, you've just given me another reason to keep you alive. Keep your speeches for yourself, thank you," Cadfael deadpanned, as he watched his friend close his eyes again, the angular features of his face tensing in pain, his jaw clenched tightly.

The monk rummaged through his medicines bag and dug up a small vial which he swiftly uncorked, then brought it to Hugh's lips. "Here. Drink this."

Beringar narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "What is it?"

"Poppy juice," Cadfael informed him. "Drink."

"I'll be unconscious for hours!" Hugh protested.

"So you prefer to writhe in agony instead of having a peaceful rest? And you think that will help you heal faster?" Sometimes, Beringar did not quite recognize his own limits, and he was fortunate Cadfael was there to show him his own foolishness, the monk thought. He was too obstinate for his own good.

"But I won't be able to protect myself."

"That's already the case, considering the state you're in," Godith said scathingly, and Hugh winced. Touché.

"I'd listen to her if I were you," Torold commented sententiously.

"All right, all right," Hugh surrendered. "But first, tell me about FitzJohn. What did you find out about his death?"

"What makes you think we tried to find out?"

Beringar sniggered. "Please! I know you better than that." Then he became serious again and looked hard at his friend. When he spoke again, it was in a slow, wary voice. "Cadfael... You do know I did not kill him, don't you?"

The monk hesitated only for a second. He _had _felt the torture of doubt, at first. What Olivier had said did make sense, and he had found nothing to refute his son's hypothesis about self-defense. There was no fact to prove Beringar's innocence beyond doubt. But deep down, he _knew_ - no, he _felt_ Hugh was innocent of this crime. He might have knocked FitzJohn out, or injured him; but not killed. Yet, as he opened his mouth, Cadfael realized he had hesitated a little too long before answering. A shade of frustration darkened Beringar's features, and he looked slightly away.

"I know you are not guilty," the monk said softly, and that was all he could give to his friend.

There was an uncomfortable silence, eventually broken by Torold. "Well, I'm curious too, now. What do you know of this murder, Brother?"

"I've discovered a few things," Cadfael said reluctantly. "Not enough, though. First - we know Hugh's dagger was used to implicate him, and it was stolen from him at the abbey. It means that, whoever the thief was, he entered the abbey at least once, and someone had to carry the dagger outside, either knowingly or not."

He judged it better not to mention his suspicions about the Bishop. It was all guesswork anyway, hardly worth considering.

"I questioned the porter, he says no one foreign to the cloister entered the abbey on the day FitzJohn was murdered. So it's possible the culprit did not enter through the gates, but rather climbed the walls, in which case it would be nearly impossible to find out who he was."

"I see," Hugh said darkly. "That's not very helpful."

Knowing this was not meant as a criticism, Cadfael took no offence. "Olivier said he would enquire about..."

"Olivier!?"

"Stop moving," the monk said sternly as he held his friend down with a hand to his chest. "Yes, Olivier. I met him when he came to speak to the Abbot. As I was saying before I was interrupted," he looked pointedly at Hugh, "Olivier said he would enquire about FitzJohn's family, and try to find out more about the secretary's manservant, Adrian Dellingher. It seems Dellingher inherited a lot of money from his late master. I'm not completely convinced of his guilt yet, but it is a possibility. Also, I found an important clue in the dead man's hand."

Taking the small wooden box in which the short strands of hair he had gathered were kept, Cadfael opened it and showed its contents to Torold, Godith and Hugh. "It's hard to see with so little light, but these are brown and silver, so it would be a man in his mid-forties to late fifties, with short hair."

And that did fit Bishop Henry of Winchester's appearance, Cadfael could not help but think.

"That's weird," Hugh frowned. "It feels as though I saw these somewhere before, but I just can't remember where."

Cadfael shrugged. "Well, greying brown hair - that's pretty common, even though this shade is peculiar. You might have seen something similar anywhere in a crowd."

"True," Beringar conceded ruefully. "So what else have you got?"

"That's about it," Cadfael sighed. "Yes, I know, it's not much. But Olivier will tell me as soon as he finds something new. For now, there is little more we can do."

The monk emphasized the last words and looked severely at his friends, his fingers pointedly tapping on the small vial full of poppy juice. Truth to be told, his tactic had little effect, for the blood loss was still taking its toll on Hugh, who closed his eyes, pale as a sheet. Somewhat worried now, Cadfael knelt beside his friend to make him drink, and Hugh did not protest as the liquid was poured through his lips. Now satisfied, the monk rose to his feet and gave the vial to Godith.

"Keep this, and give him some more if he's in pain, but not before six hours have passed, at the very least."

She nodded, and he remembered belatedly that she had been his apprentice for some time, and that she knew about those things.

"What do you want us to do, Brother?" Torold asked softly as they walked away from the bed.

"For now, nothing more. Just keep hiding Hugh and take good care of him. I will do all I can to find the murderer, with Olivier's help."

"About that," Godith interjected softly. "Olivier and his betrothed, Ermina... "

"Betrothed?" the monk repeated, surprised and delighted. "Olivier and Ermina Hugonin?"

"Didn't you know?"

"I must confess, no, I didn't. It seems like there were many marriages I didn't know about! Congratulations!"

Godith smiled her thanks. "As I was saying, they are good friends of ours, and it seems you know Olivier well, too. Shouldn't we tell him about..." she pointed at Beringar, now asleep. "It might help."

Cadfael hesitated, sorely tempted. "No," he finally shook his head ruefully. "I don't think Olivier is as convinced as we are of Hugh's innocence. Not to mention, he would be torn between his duty to the Empress and his friendship for us. It is better to spare him that, unless it becomes absolutely necessary to confide in him."

"I dislike the idea, but I can see why it would be necessary," Torold nodded reluctantly. "And we trust you to make the right decisions, Brother."

Cadfael only wished he could have the same confidence in his own abilities, but said nothing. Instead, he glanced outside. "What time is it?"

"Probably around noon," Godith shrugged. "Is it important?"

"I need to get back to the abbey," the monk replied with a grimace. "I was out long, I just hope no one will ask."

"If they do, tell them Torold was feeling ill," the young lady said. "We'll say he had an indigestion or something like that. That way, they won't be able to rebuke you for being out."

"Thank you," Cadfael nodded gratefully. "For everything."

"When will you come back?" Torold asked.

"I don't know. It's not safe for me to come too often. Let's say I'll come whenever I find out something new."

"All right," Godith agreed. "Then we'll call for you only if Hugh gets worse."

Cadfael wondered if she also called Beringar by his Christian name to his face. Somehow he doubted it, but he made no comments, though a small smile played on his lips. He waved his two friends goodbye, then he hurried back to the abbey.

"Well," he muttered to himself as he went up the main street of Gloucester, "that proves the truth of the old saying. A friend in need is a friend indeed."

He arrived at the abbey just in time for lunch, and fortunately his little escapade remained unknown to everyone but the porter, Brother Harold, who had no reason to gossip about it, and no one to gossip with anyway. With such a large Benedictine community as Gloucester, the Abbot had other things to worry about than a stray visiting monk, anyway. He hardly felt the taste of the food, so focused was he on his inner thoughts, and he was relieved when the meal came to an end.

At this point, he was about to head for the garden as usual, to put his ideas in order and consider his next step, but as he walked in that direction, the prior stopped him.

"I wouldn't go there, Brother," he said. "The Bishop is taking a walk, and he is not to be disturbed."

"Ah - of course," Cadfael said obediently. "But, uh..." It was a golden opportunity to speak to the Bishop, and he was not about to waste it. "...I need to pick up some willow bark for a remedy, I promised Brother Esmond I would show him how to make it, and we need it for the infirmary."

"You can pick it up later," the prior retorted haughtily.

"But it will take most of the afternoon, as it is," Cadfael insisted.

"Oh, fine," the prior scowled. "But don't disturb the Bishop!"

Cadfael bowed his head deferentially, tried not to snort too loudly at the face the prior pulled, and perkily made his way to the garden. He had been wanting to speak with the Bishop for some time now, about the stolen dagger among other things. Of course, it would be difficult to bring the subject up, but it should not be out of Cadfael's reach. First, the monk came to the willow tree and collected some bark - it did give him a good excuse to be there. While he did that, he came closer to Henry of Winchester. The middle-aged man was gazing gloomily at the thin layer of snow at his feet, as though lost in unpleasant thoughts, but he raised his head when he heard Cadfael's crunching footsteps.

"If I may, you don't look all too well, my lord," Cadfael commented offhandedly, hoping he was not being too bold. "Perhaps you would like me to give you some medicine?"

Amusement lightened the Bishop's features, to the monk's relief. "I'm afraid there is nothing you can do, Brother... Rhys, is that it? The herbalist?" Cadfael nodded, a bit surprised that Winchester would remember his name. "I must take a hard decision, and unless you have a potion against uncertainty..."

"In most cases, one already knows what the right decision is," Cadfael mused. "But one keeps hesitating, because knowing the right course of action is one thing, following it is something else. Sometimes, it requires a high sacrifice."

Surprised by such talk from a mere monk, Winchester looked at him closer. "My problem is more that I don't have all the elements I would need to be certain I was choosing the right path."

"In that case, you can only choose the best path according to the information you do possess. If you're mistaken, at least you will know you have done everything in your power and are not responsible for the failure. Or ask God for guidance..."

"That, I have already done," the Bishop replied edgily - he obviously needed to share his frustration with someone, and in that regard, Cadfael's presence was convenient. "For the last few days. It didn't help much. What should I do? I don't know. Remain on King Stephen's side? Accept the Empress' offers of alliance? What do you say, Brother?"

"I say I am very thankful I do not have to make such choices," Cadfael said sincerely.

Winchester looked appeased, now that he had been able to confide his doubts to a sympathetic ear. "Yes," he said almost lightly. "Sometimes, I wish I were a mere Brother such as you..."

"Well, I am sorry I can't help you further," the monk said, intent on taking advantage of the moment to question the Bishop. "But perhaps you can help me." Winchester cast him a curious glance.

"How so?"

"You certainly know there has been a murder, two days ago..."

"I do."

"It has been said also that one Hugh Beringar is the murderer."

"It has."

"I travelled with this man, when he was still using his false name," Cadfael said, choosing his words carefully. "And even though he deceived me, I cannot believe he would commit murder. I feel I must find out, or I will not be at peace."

Finding a welcomed distraction in this affair, the Bishop patiently listened to the monk's story. "So I take it you are leading your own enquiries about this murder?"

"That's right," the herbalist nodded.

"And how may I help you? Do you expect me to confess I am guilty?" Winchester looked half-amused, half-exasperated at the thought.

"Not at all," Cadfael hastily replied. "But I was wondering about the weapon used to murder FitzJohn."

The Bishop began to absent-mindedly play with the golden, jewel-embedded cross he wore around his neck. "Beringar's dagger, was it not?"

"It was; but I heard the dagger had been stolen. Since you are the only one who came in and out, I thought perhaps someone might have..." Cadfael hesitated, choosing his words warily. He had to be careful on that one, because he could not risk offending the other man.

But Winchester seemed more amused than angry at the insinuation that he might have unwittingly helped a murderer. Cadfael's respect for him grew, for the Bishop showed more understanding than expected - perhaps because he was in a peculiar state of mind this afternoon, and the talk distracted him from his more serious problems. "You want to know if I saw it?" he asked.

"Yes," the monk answered plainly.

"Well," Winchester replied thoughtfully, "I am not certain I would recognize it even if I saw it, but I can tell you one thing. When I went out, two days ago, I bore no weapons, and I was empty-handed so it could not have been concealed amidst my possessions."

"I see..." Cadfael murmured. "But then how? How did the dagger leave the abbey?"

He had spoken to himself, but the Bishop replied nevertheless, somewhat wryly. "Perhaps at the belt of this Beringar fellow."

The monk said nothing. He did not believe it, but he could hardly tell Winchester that. After all, he was not supposed to be acquainted with Hugh, and it would appear rather strange that he would protect him and protest his innocence.

Disappointed, Cadfael politely took his leave and left the garden, all too aware that he was being followed by a pair of bright and sharp brown eyes. He hoped he had not aroused the Bishop's curiosity, but at least now he knew for certain the dagger had been carried out by other means. Unless Winchester had been lying... Uneasily, he discarded the thought - he really should be more respectful of the Bishop's title.

Crossing the courtyard, the monk was about to take the willow bark up to Brother Esmond when two other men came in sight. Cadfael's confusion grew slightly as he recognized one of the two; Olivier. On official business? Had he found an excuse to come and report to him? But in that case, who was the second man? His curiosity was soon satisfied, though, as his son took notice of him and murmured a few words to his friend's ear; the two came to meet the monk.

"Brother Rhys - you are the one we were looking for!" the stranger said warmly.

Judging from his clothes, he was a lord of high degree, an impression that was intensified by his imperious bearing and sharp voice. The voice of a military commander, accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed without delay. Yet, there was something about him, perhaps his charisma, that made him seem likable and trustworthy. Cadfael was not one to judge on sight, but he felt irresistibly drawn to Olivier's companion.

"I am? Perhaps you are in need of my medical knowledge?" he suggested, while casting a quick glance to his son's face; but it betrayed little of Olivier's inner thoughts.

"In a way, I suppose," the man mused. "But allow me to introduce myself; my name is Philip FitzRobert, and I think you have already met Olivier de Bretagne?"

"Oh - yes, once," Cadfael said prudently. He recognized FitzRobert's name. Gloucester's own son! But what was he doing here? That was a question the monk felt he had been asking himself much too often, these past few days.

"You see," Philip went on, "my father asked me to lead the enquiry about the murder of FitzJohn. So far, all evidence points towards Beringar, of course... But things are to be done lawfully, and as long as Beringar is on the run, there is little we can do but investigate, I suppose. Olivier told me you were the one who tended to FitzJohn's body?"

"I did."

"I have a few questions to ask you, then. But first, I think I should see the body."

"This way then." Cadfael led them to the smaller chapel where FitzJohn's body was kept. Fortunately, thanks to the cold weather, it was still in a good state and altogether presentable. FitzRobert was a military man, and he had seen many dead men, in spite of his young age; he did not flinch when he saw the corpse, but came closer and leant over it slightly, before moving the shroud away to have a better look at the wound.

"He was killed in one shrewd blow, so hard that the blade passed between the ribs to the heart, probably killing him instantly - he did not have time to cry out, I think," Cadfael commented. "It strongly suggests the murderer was a man, although it might have been possible for a very vigorous woman to do it."

FitzRobert stared at the monk in astonishment, and Cadfael berated himself. He should have kept quiet - who would expect a Benedictine to know about wounds and corpses? But it was too late, now. He restrained a sigh; he had always found it hard to melt into the crowd.

"I see your knowledge ranges farther than just herbs and potions, Brother," the nobleman said. "How come?"

"I was forty when I took the cowl. I saw a few things in my life," Cadfael said quickly, averting his eyes.

"Were you a soldier?" Philip insisted.

"I was, at Jerusalem," the monk replied, trying to keep it as short as possible. FitzRobert's interest in him was unsettling and annoying, and it was all Cadfael's own fault, he knew it. If he had just kept quiet... Then again, if FitzRobert's enquiry could prove Hugh's innocence, it was necessary to help him as much as possible.

"A crusader," FitzRobert murmured with a half smile. "Of course. Then pray tell, Brother, you have seen the body, what else is there to find out?"

"Not much. There is surprise still etched on FitzJohn's face, so I assume whoever killed him was a friend of his, or someone he knew or expected, at least. But that's just a conjecture, of course."

Olivier averted his eyes. He had remained silent the entire time, and Cadfael wondered how to get rid of FitzRobert to speak to his son privately.

"Is that all?" Gloucester's son sounded disappointed.

"What about this strand of hair you showed me last time?" Olivier stepped in.

Casting his son a reproachful glance - he had still been pondering whether to show the hair to FitzRobert or not - the monk showed the two men the small wooden box. "Yes, I found strands of hair in FitzJohn's right hand. He probably clawed at his assailant, but was only able to grasp a few hairs."

Philip brought the hair closer to his eyes, so as to see them better in the dim light. "Silver and brown", he commented. "And short. A middle-aged man ?"

"Probably."

"How do you know FitzJohn did not manage to scratch the murderer's face?"

"There was no blood under his fingernails," the monk replied immediately.

"Well, thank you, Brother, you have been most helpful," FitzRobert nodded. "I will keep the hair, though."

Reluctantly, Cadfael gave him the wooden box for the safekeeping of the hair. So far, it was their only tangible clue, and he hoped the nobleman would take good care of it. At any rate, Olivier seemed to trust him implicitly, and that would have to suffice.

FitzRobert seemed about to leave, but he paused, as if on second thought. "Tell me, Brother Rhys, I was told that Beringar came here with a Benedictine. Was it you?"

There was little point in denying it. "Yes, my lord, it was me. I met Beringar on the way. I did not know who he was then."

The falsehood came easily to the monk's lips. Perhaps he had been lying too much, these past few days.

"What was your impression of the man? I have never met him. Olivier has been near Shrewsbury once, I believe, but he had not met the deputy sheriff at that time."

Cadfael wondered what version of the story Olivier had given Gloucester. Probably one much different from the version Hugh had given to the King. "We travelled together only for a few days, but he didn't seem to me the kind of man who would commit murder." And this sentence was actually true.

"No? Yet it was his dagger that killed my father's secretary."

"A dagger can be stolen," Cadfael replied somewhat acridly. "It seems to me little evidence to condemn a man."

"Less than a strand of hair?" FitzRobert asked shrewdly.

And the monk found nothing to reply to that.


	9. Deal And Argument

**Chapter 9**

* * *

Being done with the examination of the corpse, FitzRobert announced he needed to meet the Abbot, so as to see to the burial. Gloucester's son was not totally satisfied with what he had discovered so far, that much was obvious, but he kept his disappointment to himself, as he graciously took his leave of Cadfael.

"Coming, Olivier?" he asked, as he headed for the door.

"Ah - actually, I think I will wait for you here," the knight replied quickly.

Philip cast him a curious glance, but merely nodded and left. Cadfael had been eagerly waiting for a moment alone with his son, and watched with satisfaction as the nobleman disappeared behind the door, before turning to Olivier. He had a theory he wanted to share with his son.

"About FitzJohn's father - did you find anything?"

"Well - no," Olivier replied, somewhat startled by this abrupt beginning. "I only discovered that he did not have any siblings."

"Fool that I am, I thought of this only when Philip FitzRobert introduced himself," Cadfael admitted as he began to pace. "FitzRobert, Gloucester's _illegitimate _son!"

"So, you think that Alan FitzJohn..."

"...was an illegitimate child as well, yes. That would explain why it is so difficult to find out who his parents were. I suppose they would not want too many people knowing of this."

Olivier looked somewhat dismayed by the idea. "I gather his father's given name would be John."

"Precisely," the monk nodded excitedly. "That is a first clue."

"Brother - "his son trailed off for a moment, unsure how to phrase it. "Do you know how many people in England are called John? It could be anyone!"

Cadfael was unfazed by the nevertheless sensible argument. "Not quite. First, if FitzJohn was in his mid to late twenties, then his father would be at least forty-five years old. That narrows it down, to some extent. If you could find out who his mother was... Actually, it might be a good idea to ask your friend. After all, the dead man was his father's secretary. He ought to know something about him."

The idea did not seem to fill Olivier with joy. "He will want to know why I am asking."

"Then tell him the truth; it might help find out the murderer's motives."

There was a silence, then Olivier nodded his surrender. "All right, Brother! I know better than to argue with you. You shall have your way."

"Good!" the monk replied casually, as though he had never doubted things would be done according to his wishes. "Now, what did you find out about Dellingher?"

The young knight leant back against the wall, and his sword clinked against the stone floor. "Fourth son of a nobleman. His brother William was their father's heir, Thomas became a squire, Acelin took the orders. Adrian did not have much to look forward to, until he became FitzJohn's protégé. He has all the reasons in the world to be grateful to Alan, and actually his master's death leaves him in a tight spot, in spite of the money he will inherit. Now he will have to find another employer."

"I see..." Cadfael murmured. "So it seems he is not guilty. Unless he was paid by someone else..."

"I don't think so. When I talked with him, he looked... devastated by this murder."

"Hmm. No suspect left, then. We will have to focus on FitzJohn's family, in that case. It might give us the key to solving this case. Did you ask Dellingher about the state of the body when he found it?"

"He was not able to give many details," his son shrugged. "He did mention that the body had still been a bit warm, but it only means he had been killed less than an hour before his manservant found him."

Cadfael grimaced. "Well, I suppose it was worth asking."

"Brother..." Olivier hesitated slightly before he went on. "Did you get news from Beringar?"

Biting his lower lip, the monk quickly pondered his answer. He had hoped the matter would not be raised, but no such luck. He should not tell Olivier, yet he could not, would not lie to his son. Not outright, at any rate. "What makes you think that?" he said to evade the question.

Olivier raised an eyebrow over his hawk-like eyes. "The previous times, you would ask about him first thing. And today, you did not even mention him."

Cadfael considered lying, then he gave up the pretense. That would be going too far. "I know where he is," he admitted tiredly.

His son's eyes shone briefly. "Where?"

"I will not tell you that."

Cadfael held the younger knight's gaze, and did not waver as Olivier studied him. His son showed no surprise when confronted with the monk's flat refusal, as though he had expected it.

"Why?" he asked at last.

"Do you want to know?" Cadfael retorted, somewhat acridly.

Laughter underlay his son's voice when he answered. "No, you're right. I don't want to know." He turned his gaze to the door. "I must go now. Philip won't be much longer."

"Wait," the monk interjected. "Before you go, I was wondering - why are there guards at the gates of the abbey?"

But to his surprise, Olivier averted his eyes, looking almost embarrassed. "I can't tell you that," he said abruptly, and before Cadfael had time to question him further, the knight had made his way to the door.

Thoughtful, the monk did not try to go after him, as he knew it would be of little avail. If Olivier had decided to keep silent, nothing would make him change his mind. But why? It was a trifle; what made the young man so uncomfortable about the whole matter? Cadfael had only asked out of curiosity. Yet, if this detail was linked to the murder in any way, would not Olivier speak out?

Finally Cadfael left the chapel as well. He was unsure what to do next. The more he thought about who might be the culprit, the further he was from the actual murderer. The thought of Adeney crossed his mind. He had been the one who had accused Hugh first - what better way to divert everyone's suspicions? Then he shook his head, tolerantly. Really, what unbelievable things he could think of... Why not accuse Godith, at this rate! But who, then? Isalis Stockley? She had been at the New Inn when FitzJohn was murdered, but would she have been strong enough to pierce his heart with a dagger?

Who else? Roger Stockley? Lord Ayrton? Robert of Gloucester? And why, why would someone wish to murder FitzJohn? Cadfael was close to pounding his head against the walls in frustration. Instead, he went to the infirmary, where he stayed the whole afternoon - save for the offices, of course - and showed Brother Esmond how to brew monkshood oil. In the middle of the winter, many of the older Brethren would be grateful for that ointment, although he made sure they understood fully how dangerous it could be. After Master Bonnel's poisoning, Cadfael had been reluctant for a time to brew the oil; but nearly all of his remedies could kill as well as heal, and monkshood was no different, although its effects were more violent.

The bell tolled for Vespers, but as the monk was hurriedly crossing the courtyard to go to his place in the choir, he was intercepted by the person he expected the least.

"Dewydd? What do you..."

The boy brought his finger to his lips to hush him. "I need to speak with you, Brother!"

"Now?!" Cadfael blinked in astonishment. "We are late for Vespers!"

"That way we'll be sure no one is listening," Dewydd replied, completely disregarding the office. He looked up at the herbalist beseechingly. "Please, Brother, it is important!"

The monk considered the request for a moment, reached the conclusion that it would be a lesser sin to miss Vespers than to refuse to listen to this plea, and nodded his acceptance. Dewydd immediately took his hand and led him beyond the hedge, near the thick stone walls of the chapel, where they could speak quietly without anyone eavesdropping. The monk managed a frown and looked sternly at the boy.

"Well? What is so important that we should miss the office?"

Dewydd licked his lips nervously, while glancing all around him. His fear and anxiety were obvious, but why would he be so worried? Cadfael did not have to wonder long, however, for the boy soon satisfied his curiosity. He stopped fidgeting, folded his arms with the bearing more of a nobleman than a novice, and looked straight at the monk, his face determined. "I know you are an accomplice of Roberts, Beringar, or whatever his name is. You are on King Stephen's side, and you are here as a spy."

Cadfael's breath caught in his throat. He had been in tight spots before, but nothing had prepared him for such a confession. The first thing to do was to determine how much he knew, and then what actions should be undertaken. "What makes you say that?"

"I heard you speak with him. In the garden. The first time, it was only by chance - I go there a lot as well, to hide from Brother Regis."

"Was it you who tried to eavesdrop on us on our second evening here?"

The boy made a movement of surprise. "Yes. I did not think you heard me. I left as soon as I realized I could not hear anything through the door."

Pondering the lad's words, Cadfael leant back against the wall of the chapel. It was no use denying the truth, Dewydd had certainly heard enough to be sure of the facts. But then, why had he not gone directly to the Abbot and reported everything to him? What reasons could he have to protect spies? Did he intend to blackmail them? The monk would not have expected such villainy from him - the Welsh boy had seemed straightforward and honest - but it was a possibility.

"What do you want?" he finally asked.

"Your help," Dewydd said simply.

Cadfael blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I want your help to get out of here and return to Wales," Dewydd repeated. "If you help me, I will help you in return."

"Help me? How so?"

A small smile tugged at the boy's lips. "The dagger is evidence that points towards your friend. But I know how it was stolen from him, and who did it."

Dumbfounded, Cadfael stared at him, unable to utter a sound for several seconds. "You... you are sure of that?"

Dewydd looked insulted. "Of course I am. I wouldn't say so otherwise. So, do we have a deal?"

The monk hesitated for a second. Now, he found himself in the same situation as Winchester. How could he know what was the right thing to do, when he did not have all the elements to make his decision? "Why do you want to leave the abbey?"

"It was never my decision to come here," the boy replied dejectedly. "I do not want to become a novice. I know I can't escape on my own, but I needed to be sure I could trust you. Now, you need me as much as I need you. Give me your word, and that will be enough."

"If it is not your vocation to stay, then you should not have to," Cadfael sighed. "Very well. You have my word I will help you in whatever way I can to leave this place."

Satisfied, Dewydd nodded, his dark eyes gleaming in the late-afternoon sun.

"Now, who took the dagger?"

"His name is Humphrey. He's one of the novices, he goes out a lot because he is often sent out on errands by Brother Prior. I saw him with this dagger, the afternoon before FitzJohn was murdered. He said Brother Gary had asked him to fetch a knife to sharpen a quill, and I didn't pay attention at the time, although I did wonder where Humphrey had found such a fine dagger. But later this evening, I saw a golden coin in his hand. I did not enquire further, because I thought it was not my business and I should let Humphrey's confessor deal with it... but afterwards, when I heard about the murder... I did not realize at once there was a link, that's why I did not come to you sooner."

It made sense. It certainly made sense. Cadfael had asked the porter whether strangers had come in or out. But what of the regular inhabitants of the abbey? He had never contemplated the possibility that a monk would have taken part in this crime - he should have known better. A young novice was naive enough to be corrupted by a man from the outside, and a golden coin had sealed Hugh's fate that day. Or would have, had Beringar not been able to escape Gloucester's clutches. The monk closed his eyes wearily and rubbed his forehead.

"How can I have been so blind..." he murmured.

"Brother?"

He lowered his hand and glanced at Dewydd, who was looking at him questioningly. "It's all right. I'll give this information to Philip FitzRobert, and I will leave the interrogation to him. It does not tell us who the murderer is, but it might be enough to prove Hugh's innocence."

"What about my escape?" the Welsh lad insisted.

By then, it was the end of Vespers; soon, everyone would come out and resume their regular duties. The two Welshmen had little time left.

"We can't leave before we know who the murderer is," Cadfael said firmly. "By then, I will have found a way to smuggle you out."

"Fine," Dewydd nodded abruptly. "Remember, you gave me your word."

Then he ran away, probably to hide himself and lie low until he could join the other novices without anyone noticing he had not been with them before. Cadfael glanced thoughtfully at his retreating back. He felt there was something more to this boy than had been unveiled, but he could not quite fathom what. It was not his problem right now, though; he had to speak with Olivier. If only Dewydd had spoken to him before! Cadfael could have told FitzRobert directly. Now it was too late...

* * *

Hugh came to his senses slowly, his mind hazy and a bad taste in his mouth. Right, now he remembered why he hated poppy juice induced sleep. It was always strange waking up afterwards. He remained in a state of half sleep, unable to move but all too keenly aware of his surroundings, until he managed to shake his drowsiness off and opened his eyes. He was still in the barn, stable, whatever it was, but this time he was alone. Cadfael had come, he remembered, and after that he had seen either Torold or Godith by his side whenever he woke up.

Outside, it was dusk, and he wondered how long he had been asleep. Food had been left by his bedside, and for the first time since he had been injured, he felt hungry. No, actually he felt ravenous. He sat up, with a slight hiss when his side reminded him painfully of his wound, and managed to have a bite to eat. The bread tasted wonderful, and he would have killed for a glass of wine... although that last metaphor was rather unfortunate, given the circumstances. Nevertheless, he took the pitcher and poured some wine into the goblet Godith and Torold had thoughtfully left for him. Hugh was about to drink when the muffled voice of a man, sounding through the backwall of the barn, stopped the goblet halfway to his lips.

"Godith, I'm warning you! You will not speak to me in that tone of voice!"

The girl's voice rose to match the man's angry tone. "And you shall not say such things under my roof, Father!"

Putting down the untouched goblet, Hugh painfully rose to his feet and drew closer to the wall. Perhaps he should not have listened, given that it was obviously Fulke Adeney having an argument with his daughter, but he had to know. Did Adeney suspect that his own daughter kept his enemy hidden from the Empress? Maybe Godith was in danger. And where was Torold? Probably out - he would have let no one, not even his father-in-law, speak thus to his wife.

"You do not understand what is at stake!" Adeney spat in fury.

Hugh leant back against the wooden wall to remain upright, careful not to make the planks creak. Not that Adeney would have heard, the way he was shouting.

"Do I not?" Godith stood up to her father, as Beringar expected her to. She was at least as headstrong as Adeney.

"If you know where he is, you _must _tell me!"

"I've already told you I do not! And even if I did, I would not tell you!"

"Godith! He was your betrothed! He _abandoned _you! How can you even consider giving him shelter? And now he has not only betrayed you, but he has also murdered!"

There was little doubt as to who was the subject of their discussion by now, and Hugh grimaced. As much as he was unhappy with Adeney calling him a murderer and accusing him wrongly, he did not want to be the reason for a quarrel between Godith and her father. Even though they were very different and their opinions diverged on numerous matters, he knew they loved each other dearly.

"You don't understand anything, Father!" Godith said in a low, furious hiss. "I thought you did, but perhaps I should have explained this to you more plainly, since you obviously can't realize it by yourself. He did not abandon me - he gave me back my freedom, allowed me to marry the man I truly love! He is free of his choices, as much as you were when you chose the side of the Empress! Why do you deny him that? If not your affection, he deserves at least your respect! And if you were not blinded so much by your resentment over imaginary offences, you would know as well as I do that he is not a murderer!"

There was a smacking sound, then silence, but Hugh did not need to see the scene to guess what had happened; Adeney had slapped his daughter. Beringar would have entered the room and told the man off for doing that, if he had the strength - but it was perhaps better that he did not. In all the years he had known Adeney, when his own father was still alive, Hugh had seen Fulke slap his daughter only twice, and for offences that would have deserved worse. He was not a violent man - what Godith had told him must have really unsettled him.

Nothing more could be heard. A little worried now, Hugh tried to find a split in the wooden wall, large enough for him to make sure Godith was all right. Having finally found one, he caught a glimpse of the scene - but a glimpse was enough. Adeney, his face wan, stood in front of his daughter. Her cheek red both because of the slap and because of her indignation at such treatment, Godith was staring at her father, without yielding any ground. Eventually, Adeney swung round and strode to the door, which he slammed on his way out. Hugh closed his eyes in dismay.

The door that led to the barn opened, and Godith looked at him.

"I thought I heard a sound," she said simply.

Beringar looked at her. He knew he was probably as pale as Adeney. "I'm sorry." It was all he could tell her, and it was not enough.

She shrugged. "It's not your fault."

"I know. But I am still sorry. I had hoped there would be not bad blood between us, but I guess that was too much to ask for. I hesitated a lot before picking a side, you know..." he trailed off. It was not the moment to start a political debate.

"You should sit down. You look half dead."

She helped him walk to the bed and placed the forgotten goblet, still full of wine, in his hands. Hugh drank absent-mindedly, although he did appreciate the warmth of the alcohol.

"I think he suspects you're here," Godith murmured. "My father. But you can't go out now, you would be recognized immediately. I just hope he won't..." she sighed and left her sentence open.

"He would not put his own daughter in danger," Hugh said softly. "No matter how much he dislikes me. He is a man of honour."

"Yes, he is..." the young lady averted her eyes. "Torold won't be much longer," she finally said. "You should rest some more."

Neither her husband nor her father had been able to tame her - Hugh knew better than to try and make a stand against her. He nodded obediently and lay back on the bed. He just hoped Cadfael was getting somewhere, because they could not stay in Gloucester much longer, at this rate. Adeney would find out where he was, sooner or later, and then...


	10. The Reason Why

**Chapter 10**

* * *

There was not a second to waste. Rather than wait for Olivier to come to the abbey once again - the poor man was probably running out of excuses to find himself there anyway - Cadfael decided to go to him. He knew perfectly well that it was a dangerous move, but they were getting closer to the murderer, he was sure of it; and if they waited for too long, perhaps the culprit would get away.

The monk did not even bother to ask permission from the Abbot. At this point, it hardly mattered anymore, so he just asked Brother Harold to open the door and left. Outside, he hardly saw anything in the streets as he hurried to the New Inn, where he assumed he would find Philip and Olivier, for he was too worried to even pay attention to his surroundings.

In his haste, he had not even thought about how he would find his son. Fortunately, it did not prove to be a problem, for he saw Olivier immediately in front of the New Inn, as the young man dismounted his horse. Surprise showed on his features when he saw the monk, and he smiled at Cadfael.

"Brother! I was going to see you..."

"The dagger!" Cadfael interrupted him. "I know how it was stolen!"

"Really?" the knight's voice betrayed a mixture of surprise and excitement. "How?"

Cadfael hesitated and cast a glance around him. No one seemed to be paying them any attention. "One of the novices was bribed. His name is Humphrey. I think we need to interrogate him, but I can't do it officially. You must tell Philip FitzRobert about it and let him deal with it."

"And then tell you what we learnt," Olivier added wryly. "But you should come with me and tell this to Philip yourself. He'll want to know how I learnt about this, otherwise. Philip is a very clever man, you know."

"If you think that's absolutely necessary..." the monk replied, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

"I do. Come on, Brother, this way."

Cadfael followed Olivier inside the building, a bit annoyed at the prospect of being once again near FitzRobert. The man was _too _clever for Cadfael to be comfortable around him. The monk had a feeling Philip saw more than he let know. Did he suspect something? When he had come to examine the body, the way he had looked at Olivier and Cadfael...

His son guided him through a labyrinth of corridors, until they finally reached Philip's room. Olivier knocked softly on the door, and entered when he was invited. Cadfael followed and closed the door behind them. FitzRobert was seated in a chair, absent-mindedly fiddling with a dagger the monk recognized immediatly; it was the same weapon that had taken Alan FitzJohn's life. When he saw who the two newcomers were, Philip raised an eyebrow and glanced at Olivier quizzically.

"Well?" he prompted.

"The good Brother has information to give us," the former crusader announced.

"Oh?" Philip drove the tip of the dagger in the wooden table in front of him. "Pray tell, Brother, what is it?"

Cadfael took in a breath and repeated to the nobleman what he had already told his son. "The thief was one of the novices, called Humphrey. He was bribed. I think it might be a good idea to interrogate him."

"Hmm..." FitzRobert betrayed no surprise as he observed the monk. "And how did you learn that piece of information?"

Cadfael held the nobleman's gaze without fear or hesitation. "Someone told me."

"And you won't tell me who it was," Philip concluded - it was not a question. Yet, he sounded amused rather than angry at the monk's defiance. Cadfael prudently chose not to give an answer, and Philip obviously did not expect one. "Very well. I shall question this novice. But I notice you seem to take a great interest in this investigation."

Hesitating briefly, Cadfael picked his next words with care. FitzRobert was staring at him with the intensity of a wolf looking at its prey, and although he did not think he had anything to fear from Gloucester's son, he preferred not to try his luck. "I do not think Beringar is a murderer. I know him well enough to affirm that, and I would repeat it under oath."

"One can take an oath with complete sincerity, yet be mistaken," Philip pointed out dryly. "Fulke Adeney would probably swear the exact opposite of what you just said. And he knows Beringar much better than you. Or does he?"

"Fulke Adeney is biased," Cadfael replied, avoiding the last question.

"And you?"

"Probably also," the monk admitted. "But I try not to let that cloud my judgment."

FitzRobert rose to his feet and walked to the window. Hugh's dagger lay on the table, forgotten for the time being. "Well, I suppose you know better than Adeney who to give your trust to. We got a new piece of information as well. Olivier, if you would be so kind...?"

The black-haired knight nodded. "We tried to learn more about FitzJohn's family. It took longer than expected, but we were finally able to find out who his father was."

Cadfael felt his heart pound in his chest in anticipation. "Who was it?" he asked, his throat dry.

Philip answered instead of Olivier. "His name was John Stockley."

Silence fell, as the monk realized just what it meant. "John Stockley? So he's dead, now... Was he related to Lady Isalis Stockley?"

"Yes, indeed. He was her uncle," Philip said casually. "But he was related more closely to someone else, who bore the same name."

Thunderstruck, Cadfael stared at him. "John Stockley was Roger Stockley's father? But... Alan FitzJohn was his cousin then? But why? Why would Roger kill his cousin? Alan was an illegitimate child! What threat could he be to Roger?"

Amusement gleamed in FitzRobert's eyes. "Take a seat, Brother, before your legs betray you." Cadfael complied dumbly. "It is an interesting story, truth to tell. Alan was John Stockley's eldest son, and although he had the misfortune to be born from a woman other that John's wife, he remained his favourite child. Oh, John tried to be fair to both his sons, but I think Roger suffered because of this distinct preference. Before his death, John gave a good part of his lands to Alan, as a gift. For Roger, it was the last straw; part of his inheritance was stolen from him, or so he felt I suppose."

Philip was a good storyteller, Cadfael had to give him that. "How did you learn all this?" Curiosity had always been the monk's besetting fault.

"I questioned Roger's mother, Alix," FitzRobert explained contently. "She told me the whole story, although with some more details. Anyway, Alan didn't have children, so Roger was his closest heir. If my father's secretary happened to die, all his possessions would get back to the family. I suppose Roger often dreamt of a possible accident, but Alan's position did not really put his life in jeopardy... The simplest solution was obviously to kill him."

"But why now?" At this point, Cadfael was virtually hooked on Philip's lips.

"Killing FitzJohn was all good and well, but Roger could not afford to be suspected. So he needed..."

"A scapegoat!" the monk exclaimed. "And that's where Hugh steps in, I suppose," he added ruefully.

FitzRobert cast him a strange glance. "Indeed. Lady Isalis has, I must say, more shrewdness than her cousin. She guessed quickly that Beringar was actually a spy - don't ask me how, I suppose it's her feminine intuition or something like that. Of course, she immediately told the Empress, who decided to get rid of Beringar as quickly and discreetly as possible."

"The duel..." Cadfael murmured, as he remembered the incident on their second day in Gloucester.

"Exactly. Only, Beringar did not have the courtesy to let himself be dealt with easily, and he had the upper hand in that duel. At this point, Roger decided to use him. A spy loyal to Stephen; who would try to find another culprit when this one had so conveniently forgotten his dagger in his victim's heart? Truth to be told, that's what first made me doubt Beringar's guilt. He did not seem quite stupid enough to make such a blunder."

The monk nodded. "Of course, it makes sense. So it was Roger who bribed the novice..."

Olivier, who had remained silent during the story, frowned as he drummed distractedly on the wooden table. "But what about Isalis? What part did she take in all this? How do you know she was not the actual murderer? After all, she was at the New Inn when the crime took place, and the handling of daggers has no secrets to her, if what I have been told about her is true."

"That's a question I have asked myself as well," Philip admitted. "I am not sure which of the cousins did the actual murdering. Roger was the one who had the most to gain, but Isalis might have done it for his sake. I could not find a witness to tell me where Roger was at the moment of the crime, so it's impossible to know for sure. I suppose I will arrest both and question them until I get a satisfying answer, but I would have liked to find out by myself."

Restraining a wry smile, Cadfael passed his hand through his grey hair. Obviously, to Philip this murder was not so much a tragedy as an interesting problem to solve. Yet, he felt something was missing - something he should have been able to figure out by now, but he could not fathom what exactly. What clues did he have? The dagger - by now, he knew all about it. The strand of hair. Yes, that had not been explained yet. What about the strand of... Slapping his forehead, the monk closed his eyes in dismay. Of course - that was obvious, if he had had the eyes to see!

"No," he said. "It was Roger who killed, without a shade of doubt."

Philip raised an eyebrow. "How do you know?"

"The strand of hair!" Cadfael replied excitedly. "I should have realized from the beginning something was amiss... It is not a strand of hair."

"I don't quite follow you," Olivier admitted with a frown.

"Perhaps I should say, it is not a strand of human hair," Cadfael went on. "You see, the first time I met Roger, he was wearing a tunic lined with _fur_. Silverish-brown fur."

"So, what FitzJohn tore off before he was killed..." the knight's eyes widened as he finally understood.

"Precisely!" Cadfael said triumphantly. "He ripped off this strand from Roger's tunic! Of course, these hairs were as thin as human hair. We wrongly assumed they were human from the beginning!"

Philip rose to his feet. "You have an impressive mind, Brother. Well, let's go and find Roger then. He shall be tried fairly, but he'll probably hang for his crime."

"And what about Hugh Beringar?" the monk enquired.

FitzRobert hesitated, if only for a second. "That is for my father to decide; but even if Beringar did not kill, he still is a spy."

With these words, he left the room, followed by Olivier. Cadfael snatched Hugh's dagger from the table, then followed their lead. Philip did not bother to find any guards to back him up, and headed directly for Roger's rooms. They were not far away, and two minutes later Gloucester's son opened the door, not bothering to knock. He probably expected to surprise Roger, but he was disappointed; the only people he found there were Isalis and another woman, who Cadfael assumed was Alix, Isalis' aunt and Roger's mother. The old woman raised her head when Philip entered, and stared at him with dignity.

"You will not find my son here," she said simply.

Eyes narrowed, FitzRobert clasped his hands behind his back. "May I know where he is?"

"She will not tell you," Isalis retorted, her pale grey eyes glittering fiercely. "Nor will I."

"You are guilty as well, my Lady," Philip said harshly. "As your cousin's accomplice. Do not think I have forgotten that."

She looked at him, unfazed by his abruptness. "I do not expect any leniency from you, my Lord. Aunt Alix answered your questions truthfully, for she is loyal and would not want an injustice to be made. But Roger is her son, he is my kinsman by marriage, and I love him as a brother."

"Enough to help him commit murder and escape the law?"

"I did not know what he was planning," Isalis answered calmly. "When I found out, it was too late. Giving my cousin away would not have revived Alan."

"What about Beringar?" Olivier asked. "He would have been tried for murder and hanged!"

She shrugged. "A spy."

"Yet the law is the law," Philip said coldly. "We _will _find your cousin, believe me, whether you tell us where he is or not."

Olivier glanced at his friend. "Philip, we can't wait. We'd better find two horses and go after Roger - he's probably already leaving the town."

"You're right," FitzRobert growled with a last, scathing glare at the two women. "Let's go."

He turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room, followed by Olivier. Cadfael left as well, but he did not go after them; the truth had been uncovered, it was now their job to find Roger Stockley and hand him over to the law. And it was time for the King's two spies to leave Gloucester, as quickly as possible.

The monk rushed back to the abbey as quickly as he could. He went down to his and Hugh's room, and gathered their meagre effects in a bundle, then walked swiftly to the stables. He could not leave with their two horses - it would look suspicious for a mere Brother to have two such fine mounts - but one was better than none. When he entered the stables, he found himself facing Dewydd, who stared accusingly at him.

"You were going to leave without me!"

"I was not," Cadfael said curtly. "I knew I would probably find you here. Come on, now, we don't have much time. As soon as Philip catches our murderer, he will probably start looking for us, and I'd rather we were as far as possible when that happens."

"How will you get me out of here?" the boy asked cautiously.

"Do you know where I could find a bag? Big enough for you to fit inside?"

Dewydd's face lit up as he understood what the monk had in mind. "Yes, I know where to find that. I'll be back in a minute."

Meanwhile, Cadfael finished to saddle Hugh's daple-grey stallion. If they had to abandon one of the horses, better to take Beringar's favourite, although the beast's nasty temper made it a pain to deal with. The grey horse nearly bit Cadfael's hand off when he adjusted its tack, then skittishly chewed on the bit. Dewydd came back with the bag, and slipped into it without being told to. Cadfael closed the bag, tied it on, then pulled it up to the horse's saddle. It looked like a bundle of food and supplies, or close enough to fool anyone who would not be looking closely.

"Don't make a move, don't utter a sound, no matter what," the monk instructed Dewydd in a low voice. "Otherwise, we are both dead."

There was no movement on the boy's part, and, satisfied, Cadfael led Hugh's stallion outside the stables.

* * *

Two days' rest had done wonders. Now, Hugh could at least walk for a few minutes without collapsing, and the wound did not seem to be infected. In two weeks, he thought optimistically, he would just have another scar to remind him of this unpleasant mission. Once again, he wondered how Cadfael was faring. He could not help but worry about his friend, although so far the monk had got by much better than Beringar himself. 

It was now twilight, and the bell had tolled for Vespers long ago. Sitting in his bed with little else to do, Hugh was getting immensely bored, and greeted Godith with pleasure when she came to the barn with enough food for the two of them.

"I asked Torold to go see Brother Cadfael and tell him you must leave as soon as possible," she announced as she sat down beside him. "I am certain Father suspects something."

"It is better I leave," Hugh agreed. "I must thank you for what you did, Godith." Her name was soft on his tongue, and he realized that, although he had not married her, he still loved her as a friend, almost as a sister. A younger, foolish sister, with a heart, courage and generosity which had yet to find their match.

The young lady smiled and shook her head. "I could not very well let you be caught. Besides, I am sure Father would have regretted it if you had been executed, even if he would have been too stubborn to admit it. He still loves you as a son, you know. That's why your choice to follow Stephen hurt him so much."

Hugh laughed softly. "Perhaps."

Silence fell as they both slowly began to eat the bread, meat and fruits Godith had brought with her. Fulke Adeney was still a touchy subject for them, especially after the scene Hugh had witnessed the previous day, and a certain uneasiness remained after he had been mentioned. When they were done eating, Godith looked almost relieved, and she rose to her feet immediately.

"I should get back in the house," she said, "just in case..."

The girl did not have time to finish her sentence, for at this very moment the outer door of the barn burst open, and the man they had been talking about appeared, standing in front of them. Fulke Adeney. Both Hugh and Godith froze, unable to make a move; Adeney looked as surprised as them, as though he had not expected to find them here, and he gaped at his daughter and Hugh.

"I... I was looking for you," the man said, sounding almost as though he was trying to justify himself, although it was not clear whether he meant Hugh or Godith.

"Father..." Godith murmured, blanching.

Distress and feelings of betrayal were etched on her father's features, as he looked at them. "You _told _me you did not know where he was! How could you lie to your own father!?"

Godith stiffened at these words, and she took offence - she had probably inherited her boiling temper from him. "I said I would not tell you even if I did know," she growled. "I was fair to you!"

Adeney's face hardened, and he put his hand on the hilt of his sword, which he unsheathed in a swift move. "Step aside, Godith."

"No." She was pale, but determined.

Hugh rose to his feet and grabbed his own sword, which had been lying near the bed. He had no desire whatsoever to fight Adeney, but he would defend himself if he had to.

"Step aside!" Adeney repeated once again, more harshly, but to little avail.

"Godith," Hugh said softly. "I don't want you getting hurt. You should..."

The young lady glanced heavenwards, then turned to face him. "You are not suggesting that my father might hurt me, are you, Master Beringar?"

"Of course not!" Hugh exclaimed. "But an accident..."

"There will be no accident," she said calmly. "Because you will not be fighting. What the devil is wrong with you two!?"

"_Godith_! Your language!" Adeney sounded so scandalized by this minor offence, that it was rather comical in such a situation, but she ignored him.

"Are you trying to make me miserable?" she went on. "Because that is certainly what you are getting at with this nonsense. Men and their honour! Can't you forget about it just once in your life? Sheathe your blade, father! And you," she glared at Hugh, "drop this sword and sit down before you collapse."

Wounded in his pride, Beringar was still reasonable enough to see Godith's point, and he did as she said. Fulke Adeney pursed his lips and looked at his daughter with a mixture of exasperation and anger, yet he obeyed her. He could not go after Hugh when she stood in his way.

"Robert of Gloucester shall hear about this," he said simply, then strode out, slamming the door behind him.

Godith remained still, eyes set on the closed door as if she had been mesmerized. Hugh rose and walked to her, and softly lifted her chin. She was silently crying.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "God knows I'm sorry, Godith."

The words seemed to soothe her, and soon enough she regained control of herself, quickly wiping her eyes with her sleeve - a habit she had had for as long as he could remember, and her father had never managed to convince her how unlady-like it was.

"Torold should be back soon," she said. Her voice was a bit hoarse, but it was the only thing that betrayed her distress.

"Yes," Hugh nodded. There was not much more to say.

Indeed, a few minutes later, someone knocked lightly at the outer door of the barn, and Godith went to open. However, it was not Torold, but Cadfael. The monk entered the barn with Hugh's grey stallion. He was followed by a lad dressed as a Benedictine novice.

Godith frowned in anxiety when she did not see her husband. "Brother? Where is Torold?"

"Torold? He was supposed to meet me?" Cadfael sounded as surprised as she. "I did not see him. I came because we need to leave."

Hugh raised his head sharply. "What about the murderer?"

"We found out who he is," the monk replied, dismissing the matter with a wave of his hand. "I'll explain later. But I have a feeling Philip FitzRobert will be looking for us soon, so we'd better get a good headstart."

"Oh yes, he will," Beringar muttered. "Fulke Adeney found me," he explained when he noticed Cadfael's quizzical glance.

The monk grimaced. "Well, I suppose this was to happen sooner or later. I probably missed Torold on my way here," he went on. "We can't wait for him - we need to go."

Hugh nodded and fastened his belt around his waist. His sword weighed uncomfortably on his hips, but that would have to do. Cadfael handed him a garment made of black cloth.

"Put that on - no one will recognize you."

Unfolding the piece of cloth, Hugh quickly realized it was a monk's frock. One of Cadfael's spares, he assumed. He putpassed it on with his friend's help; Cadfael being taller and of a larger stature than him, the robe was a bit too long and wide, but it fitted well enough to appear genuine, and the looseness of the garment allowed Hugh to conceal his sword better.

"I wish I could give you back the two horses Torold and I used to flee Shrewsbury," Godith said apologetically. "But they are at the New Inn, so I don't think..."

"You mean those two?" Torold Blund appeared at the threshold, a pair of reins in each hand. Godith smiled in relief when she saw him, safe and sound. "At the abbey, Brother Porter told me you had left in a rush," Torold added. "I thought you might need those horses."

"Oh, we do!" Cadfael exclaimed. "And we are grateful for this gift."

"It's not really a gift," Torold smiled. "We're just giving back a loan." The squire patted Hugh's shoulder, and Beringar smiled back.

"Off we go then," Cadfael said.

"I thank you both for everything," Hugh said to Godith and Torold. "And I wish you good fortune."

The squire took his wife in his arms, and she hugged him back, then smiled at Cadfael and Hugh. "Godspeed," she said softly.


	11. On The Run

**A/N : **I know, I know, took me long enough. To make up for the slow update, here are three new chapters.

* * *

**Chapter 11**

It was snowing, slowly but steadily, and the eerie silence of the night was barely disturbed by the muffled sound of the horses' hooves piercing the white mantle of snow that now covered the road. Dark clouds hovered above the three riders, only sometimes letting through silver moonbeams that shone surreally on the frosted branches of the trees surrounding the narrow, hard-packed surface of the pathway. One of the horses snorted, and its rider patted its neckline soothingly.

"...and that is how we found out that Roger Stockley had to be the murderer," the rider in the lead concluded.

Hugh snorted just like his horse had a few seconds ago. "As always, Brother, you amaze me! Perhaps _you _should be deputy sheriff, after all. You always seem to get to the solution before I do."

"Well, you did not have too many occasions to investigate this time," Cadfael protested modestly. "Besides, it was mostly a matter of luck."

"But Roger escaped," Hugh added darkly.

"Perhaps he has been caught by now."

"Perhaps," Beringar granted, although he did not sound any more convinced than his friend. "Anyway, that's for Gloucester to worry about. We have our own problems."

"Such as?"

"Dewydd."

"Hey, I'm not a problem!" the boy protested.

"That's not what I meant," Hugh amended. "But what are you going to do, now that you have left the abbey?"

"I'll come with you to Shrewsbury," the former novice replied determinedly. "Then I'll go back to Wales. I have kin there." His determination faltered, though, and was soon replaced by uncertainty. "I can accompany you, can't I?"

"Of course you can," Cadfael said to appease him. "We are not going to abandon you now."

After that, they rode in silence for a while, expecting to hear the sound of men going after them at any moment. How long would it take Adeney to have men sent on their trail? Yet, no sound came from behind, and each step away from Gloucester made them feel safer. They had been riding for two or three hours now, and the occasional trees bordering the pathway had somehow become a real forest. After a while, Cadfael pulled on his reins.

"Why are you slowing down?" Hugh asked the monk.

"We can't see a thing. If we keep going, we will probably get lost. It would be better to rest until dawn, then we can resume our travel."

It was the only sensible thing to do, both Hugh and Dewydd had to admit, so they dismounted and led their horses a few yards away from the road. The weather had not improved, and the fresh snow crunched under their feet. Cadfael was beginning to regret his boots were not of a better quality. They were not completely snowproof, and he could feel a cold dampness on his feet, which was most unpleasant. The monk glanced at his friend, who was cause for more worry than his cold feet. Although he could not see Hugh's face, he could tell from his hunched shoulders that he was beyond exhaustion. Cadfael hoped only that Beringar's wound had not reopened, but for now their main problem was the cold.

"We need to build a fire," the monk said, his breath condensing in a small cloud that disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.

"I'll go get some wood," Dewydd offered immediately, and Cadfael nodded approvingly.

The lad walked away while the monk busied himself with tethering the horses to a tree - trees were not hard to find around here. Meanwhile, Hugh knelt down and began to dig a hole in the snow for the fire. He had got rid of his disguise at some point and shivered a bit in his torn clothes. Cadfael came to his side to give him a hand, and they were soon done with their task. There was nothing else they could do while waiting for the firewood Dewydd was supposed to bring back, and Cadfael was beginning to think the lad had been gone longer than he ought to. He was about to comment on that when he was suddenly attacked from behind.

Having not expected the assault, the monk was taken by surprise and hardly able to defend himself. Whoever attacked him passed an arm around his shoulders to hold him still, while he put a blade to Cadfael's throat. Hugh had jumped to his feet and unsheathed his sword, but he could not strike without risking to hit his friend; hesitating, he took a step forward.

"Don't move!" the attacker hissed near Cadfael's ear - the monk could feel the other man's breath on his neck. It was rather unsettling.

Hugh stopped dead in his tracks, fingers clenched on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white from the pressure. "Release him!"

"Oh, no, I think not," the man laughed. "Drop your sword, or I slit the monk's throat. He is your friend, isn't he?"

Madness underlaid the attacker's voice, and Cadfael did not doubt for a second that he would be true to his word. Neither did Hugh, obviously, for he obeyed and reluctantly let his sword fall on the snow.

"Don't - " Cadfael began, but the pressure on his throat increased and he found himself gasping for breath.

"What do you want?" Hugh asked, looking hard at the man who held his friend hostage.

"Many things," he replied, "none of which you can give me."

At this point, Cadfael finally recognized his attacker. It had taken some time for his mind, numbed by tiredness, to recognize the man's voice, which was no longer the aristocratic drawl he had heard for the first time a few days ago. Now it was raspy and full of despair and hatred, yet it was still the same man's; Lord Roger Stockley, who had murdered his half-brother out of greed.

"I knew FitzRobert would look for me in the south," Roger went on, as though he felt the need to boast one last time. "He thinks I want to flee across the channel and hide in France. So instead, I went north. I knew I'd find you heading there - _spies!_" He spat the last word with disdain and contempt. Cadfael found it rather paradoxal that Stockley would despise them so for being spies, when _he _was a murderer.

"You have found us," Beringar admitted. "So what now?"

"Because of you, I am being hunted down," Stockley hissed. Cadfael felt the blade tremble on his throat. "By all means, I should kill you."

"Then what are you waiting for?" the monk asked. He saw the alarm in Hugh's eyes, but he was not afraid of Roger, even though he was very well aware that the man was a ruthless murderer.

"You are mine, now!" Roger growled. "I'll bring you to the Empress, and she will reward me for that. She knows how to deal with spies. I saw what she did with the two others Isalis uncovered." He sneered with morbid mirth.

"Don't be ridiculous, man!" Hugh exclaimed. "If you take us to her, the only thing that is going to happen is that we will hang together. For God's sake, you killed Gloucester's secretary! Do you really think the Empress would let a murderer on the loose? She can't afford that, if only because of public opinion!'

"Shut up, SHUT UP!" Stockley shouted. The hand holding the blade was shaking increasingly, and a rivulet of blood came down Cadfael's throat. In spite of the sharp pain, the monk did not move. Was there a way out? He could see none.

"What have you done to Dewydd?" Cadfael enquired. He and Hugh were in trouble, but if only the lad could survive all this unscathed...

"Unconscious," Roger said briefly - he obviously cared little about the boy. "Now, Beringar; sit down. Remember, any wrong move and your friend is dead! No - not so close to your sword."

With little choice in the matter, Hugh complied and sat further from his weapon, disappointed that the murderer had caught him out. Cadfael began to ponder whether or not he'd have a chance to succeed if he tried to yank the dagger away from his throat and to slip out of Roger's grasp. But the nobleman held him too closely, and too hard. If he attempted that, he would most likely end up with a slit throat, either on purpose or by an accident on Roger's part.

"You, monk, tie him up!" Stockley growled in his ear. "And don't try anything!" he added, as though he had felt the turmoil in his prisoner's mind.

"With what rope?" Cadfael asked, raising an eyebrow.

"There is some in my saddlebags," Roger replied. He might be a madman, but down-to-earth enough to anticipate these kind of details. "Get it. Slowly."

Cadfael had to obey. He retrieved the rope from the saddlebags on Stockley's black mare, and unwillingly used it to bind Beringar's hands together, behind his back, like Roger insisted. Cadfael expected Roger to knock him out next, either that or bind him as well, and when the murderer let his guard down, he was ready; he pushed him away and moved back as he fumbled in his robe to reach his own dagger.

However, thrown off balance, Stockley had staggered back behind Hugh's grey stallion. When the horse felt a presence uncomfortably close to it, it lashed out violently. One of its hind hooves hit Roger's head, and the murderer fell on his back with a muffled scream, then lay motionless, blood pouring down his forehead. Cadfael had not expected such a turn of events, and he rushed to the fallen man's side.

"Is he dead?" Beringar appeared behind Cadfael.

The monk took a minute to examine the body, then heaved a sigh. "No, just unconscious. Blows to the head always bleed a lot."

Rising to his feet, Cadfael finally retrieved his dagger and used it to cut the ropes that bound Hugh's hands. His friends heaved a sigh of relief and rubbed absentmindedly at his wrists.

"Is he going to wake up soon?"

Cadfael sniggered mirthlessly. "Oh, no. Your grey dealt him quite a blow."

"Yes, indeed." Hugh eyed his horse fondly.

"I'll never come behind your horse again, Hugh. Actually, I won't even go anywhere close to him."

"He was surprised, that's all," Beringar shrugged. "And he did save the day."

Cadfael gathered the bits of rope he had salvaged and used them to tie Roger's wrists together. It was immensely more pleasant than when he had had to do it with Hugh. Once satisfied the knots would hold, he straightened up with a groan. The cold did nothing for his joints.

"Dewydd's probably unconscious somewhere," he said. "We must find him."

"I'll go," Hugh offered.

The monk critically eyed his friend's ashy complexion and the exhaustion etched on his features, not missing the care that accompanied his every move. "No, I will. You stay here and keep an eye on our prisoner."

The mere fact that Beringar did not insist on going was enough to prove Cadfael had been right. His friend just nodded wearily and leaned back against a tree, while the monk walked into the forest, following Dewydd's fresh tracks. He found the boy easily, hardly a hundred yards away from their camp, his body sprawled on the ground. He came back to his senses as Cadfael approached and groaned, trying to sit up.

"Easy, easy," the monk admonished him. "You were hit hard."

The boy blinked, his eyes still hazy. "What happened?" he stammered.

"Roger Stockley tried to take his revenge."

"He... Stockley... Where is he now? And... where..." Dewydd stuttered as he searched frantically around him.

Understanding his concern, Cadfael lay a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Stockley is unconscious. Hugh is keeping an eye on him now. Do you feel strong enough to get back to the camp?"

The lad nodded mutely and got up, refusing the monk's helping hand. He recovered with the ease of youngsters and did not seem to feel any aftereffects from his wound, though Cadfael was determined to have a look at it, just to be sure. Better safe than sorry, after all.

They were getting back to camp when Dewydd slapped his forehead - and swore as pain flared in his head.

"Uuuh - sorry, Brother," he cast Cadfael a sheepish glance. "But I just remembered I forgot to take the firewood.

Cadfael managed by some miracle to stifle a hearty laugh and to remain serious - at least in appearance. "Of course, go get it if you feel up to it."

The boy did as he was told, and a few minutes later they came back to where Cadfael had left Hugh and Stockley. Neither of them had moved, the murderer still unconscious and Beringar seated comfortably - or as comfortably as possible when the ground was covered in snow. Dewydd dropped his load of wood and the monk set himself to kindling a fire with the expertise of someone used to the task. Soon, meagre flames rose, and a circle of warmth spread around the fire, chasing away the cold-induced numbness in the travellers' limbs.

Cadfael took a look at Dewydd's head, and was quickly satisfied the injury was not serious. "Lad, you have a thick skull," he informed him with a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Rub some snow on this bump if you want, and tomorrow you won't feel a thing."

He then turned his attention back to Hugh. "Show me that wound," he ordered sternly.

However, the monk contented himself with a look at the bandages. In the cold, without water or spare dressings, he would probably make it worse if he did anything that was not absolutely necessary. He just wanted to make sure the wound had not reopened, and it did not seem to be the case. Satisfied, he sat back between his two companions.

"What shall we do with Stockley?" he wondered out loud. The problem had been nagging at him, but he had not found a satisfying solution so far. "If we leave him here, he might die before he is found by Gloucester's men, especially if they are looking for him in the south."

"And we can't take him with us," Hugh agreed darkly.

"Why not leave him?" Dewydd suggested fiercely. "After all, he would have done so, in the same situation!"

But he was confronted with two disapproving stares, and he reddened in spite of himself.

"He is a murderer. Do you want to stoop as low as him?" Cadfael said gently.

"He must be dealt with lawfully," Hugh added. "It is for Robert of Gloucester to decide what shall happen to him."

"What then?" the Welsh boy protested. "Do you want to escort him back to Gloucester, and be captured with him? If you are caught, you will probably both be hanged!"

Hugh shrugged; he did not know any more than Cadfael what they ought to do in this situation. But at this moment, the characteristic sound of a horseshoe clattering on the frosted stones of the road could be heard, and the three travellers stilled, while sharing a worried glance. Whoever was on the road at this unlikely hour could not miss them; not with the light of the fire in this pitch-dark forest. It was too late for them to flee, or even smother the fire. Hugh retrieved his sword, while Cadfael unsheathed his dagger reluctantly; he hoped there would not be yet another fight. Dewydd was weaponless, but from the way he clenched his fists, it was obvious that he was determined to fight. Yet, perhaps it was a harmless traveller who just wanted to enjoy the fire... as unlikely as it might seem.

At last, the newcomer stepped into sight. He was of average height, with brown hair and dark eyes, and a beard cut short. He had dismounted and was holding his horse by the reins. Cadfael did not recognize him, but he saw Hugh tense suddenly, as he heard him take in a sharp breath. The monk glanced curiously at the brown-haired man, but he was certain in spite of the dim light that he had never seen him before.

"I have come to warn you," the stranger said briefly. "I have heard that Roger Stockley, the murderer of Alan FitzJohn, has gone up north."

"As you can see, he has indeed, Master Adeney," Hugh said, as he rose to his feet and motioned to the still body of their prisoner. However, Cadfael noticed his friend left his sword on the ground. But... Adeney? The monk stared at the newcomer, unsure what to expect. Had he come to seek revenge? Or to arrest them? It did not appear so...

Fulke Adeney cast an emotionless glance at Stockley. "Is he dead?"

"No," Cadfael interjected, "he is not."

"Then I shall take him in custody," Adeney said shortly. "If you will release him to me."

"Oh, gladly!" Hugh replied wholeheartedly. "As a prisoner, he is too cumbersome for us."

Adeney gave a sharp nod, and a silence followed. None of them knew exactly how to react in such a situation, especially when it was not clear whether the newcomer was an ally or an enemy. However, he soon settled the question himself.

"Gloucester will not be going after you for a few days," Adeney said awkwardly. "I have made sure of that. For Godith's sake, as much as for my own."

"Thank you," Hugh said simply.

"I must go now," the other man added quickly.

"Wait!" Cadfael said suddenly. Adeney turned to face him with a frown. "When... I mean, if you see Olivier de Bretagne, would you tell him..." the monk trailed off, searching for words. "Just... tell him... until next time."

Adeney raised an eyebrow but nodded sharply, then walked to the prisoner, and with ease he threw him over his horse's hindquarters, showing uncommon strength. Without a glance behind him or a word of farewell, he rode off and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared. A bit bewildered, Cadfael and his two companions stared dumbly in that direction long after the man's horse could no longer be heard.

"Well, that was something!" Hugh exclaimed cheerfully. "And I did not quite expect it."

"Indeed," Cadfael concurred. "He has swallowed his pride to come to you in such a manner."

"I suspect Godith did some... convincing," Beringar grinned.

"Yes, this girl knows her mind," Cadfael agreed fondly. "And she is a most precious friend."

Now rid of Stockley for good, and confident they would not be chased by Gloucester and his men for a while, Dewydd, Cadfael and Hugh spent a much more comfortable night than they would have thought. At dawn, they resumed their travel, and rode the whole day. However, they knew they would not be completely safe until they were out of the Empress' territory, and they carefully avoided any villages or settlements as much as possible. They had no doubt Adeney would be true to his word, but he might not manage to hold Gloucester back as completely as he had promised, and they were not going as fast as Cadfael would have liked. Yet the rough journey was starting to take its toll on Hugh, who was far from recovered. He tried to hide it, but Cadfael had a keen eye thanks to his practice as a herbalist, and it was no use hiding that kind of things from him. But they were now hardly two days from Shrewsbury, and there Hugh would be properly taken care of.

That night, when they set the camp, they did not bother to hide their fire; they had now left the Empress' lands, and there was nothing to fear but good old regular thieves and wild beasts, and it was unlikely that the first would lurk around such a quiet road. As for the second, the fire should be enough to scare them away. Once they had eaten, Cadfael felt tired enough to sleep a good twelve hours, although he knew that it would not happen this night. Still, it was a good thing that when travelling, monks were not expected to always keep the offices.

"I will take first watch," Dewydd offered.

"Oh, yes, thank you!" Cadfael agreed immediately.

Hugh remained silent, for he was already asleep, and Cadfael came to lie down beside him, near the fire which still spread a pleasant warmth. The monk fell in a deep slumber in a matter of minutes.

The awakening was less pleasant and much unexpected. Someone shook the monk roughly, and Cadfael opened his eyes with a yawn as someone barked "On your feet!" Something in that order sounded peculiar, but he was too sleepy to say what.

The monk rubbed at his eyes as he tried to see what was going on. The fire was down to glowing embers, and he could hardly see his surroundings. He guessed more than he actually saw the riders surrounding the small camp. Near Cadfael, Hugh was rising to his feet, as surprised as the monk was; but Dewydd was nowhere in sight. What had happened to him, Cadfael wondered worriedly, but it was not their only problem. One of the riders was holding Beringar's sword and dagger.

"You are our prisoners!" the one who seemed to be their leader said.

Only then did Cadfael realize what he had missed so far. The man was speaking in Welsh.


	12. Prisoners

**Chapter 12**

Dawn found the Welsh riders on their way to some mysterious destination. Neither their allegiance nor their goals were very clear, but from their conversation Cadfael had been able to gather that they had left him alive because they did not want to kill a holy brother, especially if this brother was Welsh, and Hugh – because they hoped to get a ransom from him, his sword and horse being proof enough of his status as a nobleman. Cadfael truly did not mind, as long as his friend and himself were safe; well, as safe as two prisoners might be. Yet, he could not help but wonder what had happened to Dewydd. He had avoided mentioning the boy to the riders, just in case - if they were not aware of him, better not to send them on his track. But he could not explain the lad's sudden disappearance, although a dreadful suspicion kept nagging at his mind.

Whatever had happened to Dewydd, though, he was probably in a better situation than Cadfael and Hugh; at least he was free, and, so close to Shrewsbury and the border with Wales, he could easily find his way. Meanwhile, the mystery of the Welsh riders remained unsolved, although Cadfael strained his ears to hear their murmured conversations. After the sun rose, he also tried to see their leader's face, but failed miserably, since the said leader was in the front, and the prisoners were kept behind, with the rearguard.

"Who are they?" Hugh whispered to his friend.

"Shut up!" one of their guards said abruptly in Welsh. Beringar cast him a sidelong glance; he could not understand the words, but the tone of voice was plain enough.

Cadfael did not answer directly - there was little point in angering their guards - but gave a small shrug to indicate to his friend that he had no idea of the riders' identity.

At any rate, the Welsh warriors seemed intent on riding all day, and they kept a straining pace. They ate on horseback around noon, some bread and meat, but did not bother to feed their prisoners. Well, they could do without a meal or two, but Cadfael hoped it would not last too long. Yet, he was not really worried; if the riders had troubled to take prisoners, their aim was probably not to starve them, and only their haste accounted for the rather harsh treatment they had been given so far.

The day went by, slow and boring. After the first surprise at being taken prisoner had passed, there was little to do; and since their guards did not allow Cadfael and Hugh to speak, they could not even comment on the situation to keep from boredom. Of course, they could try to think about a way to escape, but it was nearly hopeless. They were weaponless, their hands bound together. The reins of their horses had been tied to the saddles of two of their guards, and they were surrounded by Welshmen. Not to mention the ride was taking its toll on Hugh, who looked ashier and ashier with each passing minute. Cadfael was afraid that, if he fell, the riders would just kill him, but he could not do or say anything, just silently watch his friend suffer through the ordeal. The day felt like a year.

Yet, Cadfael had reason to believe they would at least reach a civilized place before evening; indeed, why would the riders show such haste, if not moved by the prospect of getting back home for the night? They might have been chased by some lord or another, in retaliation for their raiding activities; but had that been the case, they would certainly not have stopped to take prisoners. No, the first explanation had to be the right one - or at least, the monk hoped so. And he was proven true when, by sunset, they came near what seemed to be a fortress and a village - a small town, even. But which fortress was this? If Cadfael's suspicions were right...

As they came closer to the gates of the town, it appeared that the riders had been expected, and they were warmly welcomed, although not as warmly as they might have been. Cadfael watched all with a curious eye, and in spite of the situation he relished hearing people speak Welsh. He had been away for so long... it felt like a whole lifetime and more, and yet everything was as familiar, as though he had been away no more than a day. Nostalgia swept over him as he observed the triumphal return of the warriors.

Triumphal to an extent only, for when they reached the gates of the fortress, they saw that a man was waiting there, and he did not look happy. Actually, he looked everything but happy. In his late thirties or early forties, he had dark hair and a beard cut short, and his eyes were almost as dark as Hugh Beringar's. They darkened some more still when he saw the leader of the riders dismount easily and walk to him with a cocky grin.

"What, brother, you don't look happy to see us back!" the leader said.

The other man glared. "You went specifically against my wishes. Yet again, Cadwaladr. My patience is running short."

Cadfael could not help but gape as he recognized the name. Oh, he had been right, no doubt. They were in trouble. Or were they? He looked more closely at the unhappy-looking man.

"Aaw, don't be such a killjoy, Owain!" Cadwaladr protested, motioning for someone to take care of his horse. "My expedition has been a success! Gold, and grain, and fine clothes!"

"I don't care about gold, grain and fine clothes!" Owain snapped back. "Good Lord, you don't understand a thing, you thickheaded..." he made an impatient move, then sighed and gave up. "Well, at least you are alive, and..." he glanced at the riders, "...and so are most of your men. I suppose that's something."

"Ah! At last you think positive! Come now, I'm starved and exhausted, and so are my men."

Owain did not protest further, for the time being, although he still looked as disapproving as ever, and both brothers went inside the fortress, while the rest of the riders dismounted as well and began to take care of the horses, and attend to other tasks that came along. One of the guards assigned to watch Cadfael and Hugh glanced at his companions.

"What about them?" he asked, with a wide gesture in the direction of the prisoners.

One of his friends shrugged. "Who knows? Prince Cadwaladr gave no orders 'bout them. Put them in a cell, I guess. Cadwaladr will decide later what should be done with them."

The guard contemplated his prisoners for a few moments, then nodded. "Yeah, guess you're right. C'mon, men! I crave for hot soup and a woman for the night!"

"After this ride? You're tireless!"

"No wonder, when you know who's waiting to warm his bed," another of the guards sniggered. It seemed to be a well-known joke among them, for they erupted into laughter, while the first guard looked a bit embarrassed, as well as pleased.

They did as they had planned, and brought the prisoners inside the fortress, where the cells were. By this time, Hugh was reeling from exhaustion, but the guards paid it no heed, too impatient to get a meal and some rest with their friends. Thankfully, they did not have to walk very far; they were taken down a narrow spiral staircase, dimly lit up with torches. Hugh stumbled over the first stair with a hiss of pain, and would have fallen if the guards had not been holding him.

"Heheh, Englishmen. Look how weak they are," one of the guards jeered. "_Gwannaidd. _Weak," he repeated in badly accented English, with a contemptuous pat on Hugh's shoulder. "_Deall?_ Understand?"

Beringar tried to straighten up, in spite of the harsh grip of the guards, and said a word in Welsh - obviously one of the few he had remembered from what little Cadfael had taught him. But the monk's eyes widened in dismay. Whatever Hugh had been trying to say, it probably did not mean what he thought it meant. The guard's features hardened in anger, and he dealt the Englishman a shrewd blow in the stomach. Hugh doubled over in pain, nearly unconscious. The guard raised his fist again, but one of his companions stopped him.

"Enough, Islwyn. The man is half-dead already."

Islwyn harrumphed, but did not strike a second blow, and helped bring Hugh down the stairs, none too gently but without malice or unnecessary roughness.

There were several cells here, and a gaoler came to greet them. He was wearing the same uniform as the others, only with an impressive set of keys at his waist. Two other men, probably under the gaoler's orders, were playing cards on a wobbly-legged table, with a loaf of bread and a pitcher of wine, or beer, or some other, unknown alcoholic beverage.

"Whozzat?" the gaoler enquired, as he gazed at the prisoners through narrowed eyes. He looked a bit surprised when he noticed Cadfael's habit - he probably was not used to having holy brothers under his care.

"Prisoners," Islwyn shrugged. The guard had a talent for stating the obvious. "Prince Cadwaladr's. You keep them down here, until he asks for them."

The gaoler also shrugged; he obviously cared little about it, as long as he could resume his game of cards in peace. He slogged along to the closest jail and opened it wide, gesturing for Islwyn to get his prisoners in there. Cadfael and Hugh were pushed inside none too gently, and the door was closed on them, leaving them in the dark but for the small grid in the door, that let some faint light through. As far as Cadfael could tell, the ground was covered with thick and prickling straw, dry and packed. It had probably not been changed for some time - then again, in the winter straw was too expensive to waste on prisoners, when there were horses and cattle to be fed.

His eyes not accustomed to the darkness yet, Cadfael groped around until he felt the soft fabric of Hugh's clothes under his fingers. But he also felt a warm dampness seeping through that could only be blood, and he swore softly.

"Language, Brother," Beringar said weakly.

"I swear," Cadfael muttered, "you will be the death of me. What were you trying to say anyway?"

"Something much more polite than what he thought."

"Yes, I gathered that much. Next time, don't confuse 'lwyfr' with 'lwfry', or you'll be in trouble."

A rustle of straw told Cadfael that his friend had slightly moved his head to the side.

"If there is a difference between these two words, I didn't hear it."

"Well, trust me, there is a most important difference," Cadfael chuckled. "When we get back, I swear I will get some Welsh into your head, even if I have to hammer it into your brain."

He was being a bit more forceful than usually, he was aware of it; normally he was more soft-spoken and mild. But the last few weeks had been hard on him, and he needed to vent some of his frustration in some way or another. However, when no answer came, he began to worry in earnest. There was more blood seeping through, and Hugh's wound had obviously reopened. Being now more or less accustomed to the murkiness, he strained his eyes to get a look at the bandages, to little avail. He would have to rely chiefly on his sense of touch.

Beringar's clothes were in such a state that Cadfael had no trouble stripping him to the waist, although he seriously doubted Hugh would be able to wear them again in the future. At any rate, they would come in useful to stop the bleeding, if not anything else. The monk expected his friend to protest, but he remained silent - either that or he was no longer conscious, which would not be surprising.

"Hugh?" he called softly.

A weak groan was his sole answer. But at least he was answered. At this point, Cadfael hesitated; he had nigh to nothing with him. His dagger had been taken from him, and all his herbs were in his bundle, which was probably still in the saddlebags of his mare. Without these, there was little he could do for his friend. A feeling of helplessness swept over him for a moment, before he regained his courage and offered a quick prayer to St. Winifred. She had always listened to him in the past, and now, on Welsh land, when he needed her more than ever, he knew she would not let him down.

Eventually, he got to his feet, came to the thick wooden door, and banged on it forcefully. No answer came, so he banged again. At some point, the gaoler would grow weary of the noise and come, or at least Cadfael hoped so. And indeed, after a few minutes the man appeared and cast the monk an exasperated glare through the grid in the door.

"Be quiet, monk!" he barked.

Cadfael reminded himself forcefully that he needed to be calm and gentle if he wanted the man to listen to him. He had thought his youthful, brazen nature had long since matured, but he might have been wrong after all, for he felt like shouting in frustration. "Please, my friend is not well," he said in Welsh, the familiar words rolling easily on his tongue. "Can you get me my herbs, so I can heal him?"

The gaoler shrugged and began to walk away, obviously unwilling to bother. It was not even nastiness, just indifference. His life would be the same, no matter what happened to the prisoners, and nothing had come to prove they were at all important to Cadwaladr. So he would just go back to his game of cards and fight boredom for the whole evening, as he had probably done for months, perhaps years.

"At least, get me some water!" Cadfael called after him, but the man did not seem to hear.

After that, the monk did not expect to see the gaoler back, and he was surprised to hear the door creak open a few minutes later. The gaoler entered with a pitcher of water, and even a morsel of bread, which he set on the ground.

"Thank you," Cadfael said.

He shrugged. "No need. All prisoners get the same when they arrive."

There was little answer to that, and the monk watched him leave the cell without a word. The water was not much, but at least now he could clean the wound. He just prayed it would be enough. Or rather, he prayed they would not be left too long in this filthy jail, and that Cadwaladr would not forget them down here. Fortunately, it was unlikely to happen; after all, the Welsh prince did intend to get some money from them, in any possible way.

The monk began to tend to his friend, as gently as he could, although it was not easy in the dark; but Hugh did not utter a sound. The cell was very silent, truth to tell. The thick door stopped most of the outer noise, and there was little to be heard anyway, down in the keeps, apart from the gaoler and his subordinates drinking and playing cards. All Cadfael heard was his and his friend's steady breathing, and the rustling of straw when either of them moved.

"So, what did you hear?" Hugh's soft voice surprised Cadfael, who was getting sleepy.

"Not much." He shrugged, although he knew his friend could not see him. "The one who made us prisoners is the Welsh prince, Cadwaladr. I suspect we have been taken into Welsh land, but I'm not sure where exactly..."

"This man, at the gates of the fortress. He did not look happy," Hugh commented.

"He was not pleased with Cadwaladr," the monk admitted. "It's his brother."

"Really?" Surprise and amusement were audible in the deputy sheriff's voice.

"Owain of Gwynedd, I think," Cadfael said. "But I am not certain why they were at odds."

"Do you know what will become of us?"

"We will probably be ransomed. Or you will, at least. Who would want to buy back a simple monk?"

"I know a deputy sheriff who would," Hugh replied with a low chuckle.

Cadfael could not help but smile at this display of affection and unwavering friendship - not that he expected anything less, but it still felt good to hear.

"I suppose Cadwaladr will come to us tomorrow," he mused. "Or the day after. We'll just have to be patient, for I don't see a way out of here. In the meantime... care to taste the local bread?"

"Oh, gladly," Hugh groaned. "I'm starved."

Groping around, Cadfael eventually laid his hands on the loaf of bread, and he broke it in two halves, before handing one of them to his friend. He brought his own half to his mouth cautiously, and gnawed at it, unsure what to expect. However, the bread was edible, although it was thick and rubbery, and it was necessary to chew it for a long time before swallowing. At least, the chewing helped ease the two men's hunger, after over a day without any food.

"When we get back, I will have a thing or two to say about Welsh bread," Hugh commented. "But right now, I don't care what it tastes like."

"When we get back," Cadfael retorted, "I will have you taste _real _Welsh bread."

For a moment, they remained silent, too busy eating - or trying to eat at any rate - to bother with speaking. But the meal was meagre, and soon enough they finished the bread. To top it all, there was not a lot of water left, since Cadfael had used most of it for his ministrations. They shared what little remained in the pitcher, and then they found themselves idle. Both were too tired to just go to sleep; they needed some time to calm down and relax enough to actually drift off. There was a comfortable silence, before Hugh spoke.

"Have you seen what happened to Dewydd?"

Cadfael shook his head ruefully. "I wish I had. I do not know what happened to him. And I must confess I am a bit worried."

Hugh hesitated, then replied softly, "Have you considered that his disappearance might seem suspect?"

"So you think he sold us out to Cadwaladr?" The words came from Cadfael's lips more harshly than he would have wished.

"Frankly? I don't know," Beringar answered wearily. "The thought has crossed my mind, yes."

"Why would he hide, then?"

"For shame, maybe. Cadfael, I'm not saying he did sell us out. All I mean is that we must consider the possibility."

"Why? Even if he had - and I don't believe that's the case - what is done is done."

"I know that," Hugh sighed. "I am not seeking revenge. I am just wondering whether we should look for him, when this is over."

Cadfael pondered the matter for a few minutes, in the deep silence of the night. "I think we should," he finally said determinedly.

There was no answer, and for a moment he thought there would be none; but then, Hugh replied. "Then we shall, my friend."

* * *

Cadfael did not remember falling asleep, but he must have, for he was woken much later by the creaky sound of the door opening. Over two decades of monastery life had got him used to short nights and an interrupted sleep, and before that he had always been a light sleeper - which had saved his life more than once. He thus came back to his senses instantly, and sat up, but the light was too intense for his eyes, and for a while he could see nothing. He heard someone enter the cell, though, and walk on the crunching straw. As his eyes finally grew accustomed to the light, he saw a man in his late thirties or early forties who looked down at him; Cadfael recognized him immediately.

"Owain of Gwynedd," he said in a raspy voice.

He wondered what time it was; there was no daylight down there, and he had no way of knowing just how long he had slept. The monk was keenly aware of his disheveled appearance, in the presence of a prince, but it would be rather mean of Owain to hold it against him. After all, it was his brother's fault that Cadfael and Hugh had spent this rather uncomfortable night down here. Thinking of Hugh, the monk cast him a quick glance, and grimaced. In the dark, it had not looked so bad, but now that he had some light to see... His friend was still asleep, and he looked pale even in the yellowish light of the torch held by Owain. The bandages around his bare chest were stained with blood.

"Brother," Owain finally answered - he too had been looking at Hugh. "I have been told you are Welsh."

"So I am," Cadfael admitted straightforwardly. There was no point in denying it.

"I must apologize for my brother's behaviour," the Welsh prince went on. "I do not condone it - as you probably witnessed, when you arrived."

"Yet you still keep us prisoners," the monk replied evenly. It was a somewhat blunt manner of speaking to a powerful man like Owain, but it was also the Welsh way. Welshmen had little of the English patience when it came to beating around the bushes.

"Perhaps," Owain said cryptically. He glanced at Hugh once again. "Who is your friend? He is not Welsh, is he?"

"No, he is not," Cadfael answered prudently. He did not know where this conversation was taking them, and he was not sure he would like it if he did.

"What is his name? And his rank?"

Owain's interest in Hugh was beginning to make Cadfael a bit uneasy. Then again, he had little choice in the matter; they would have to reveal Hugh's name sooner or later, in any case. Yes, he decided, better to tell the truth and be done with it.

"He is Hugh Beringar of Maesbury, deputy sheriff of Shropshire."

For some reason, that seemed to please Owain. Was he glad because he thought such a man would fetch a good ransom? Cadfael was not certain it was the right explanation. The Welsh prince did not seem to him the kind of man who would care so much about money, as he had proven by his first reaction when his brother had come back from his raids.

Owain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Good."

Raising an eyebrow, Cadfael rose to his feet. "Is it?"

"Brother..." Owain trailed off.

"Cadfael," the monk supplied dryly.

"Brother Cadfael. As I said, I am sorry for the way my brother treated you both. And, quite frankly, I would free you for no ransom if I could. But I'm afraid I can't."

"You can't?" Cadfael repeated, rather dumbfounded. "Why not?"

"I need you for an exchange of prisoners," Owain confessed. "A relative of mine was taken hostage. I intend to get him back. The Empress..."

"The Empress?" Cadfael interrupted, with a feeling of dread. "But - she would not exchange Hugh for a hostage. He is loyal to King Stephen."

"No matter," the Welsh prince shrugged. "If she doesn't want him as an ally, she will certainly take him as a prisoner. Then she can exchange him against one of her own with Stephen, or ransom him, or whatever she pleases."

"But - "

"As for you, Brother... well, I have no reason to keep you prisoner. After the exchange is made, you will be free to leave, or stay as a guest if you want."

Cadfael felt a bitter lump in his throat, and an ashen taste in his mouth. "It will be a death warrant for Hugh, if you give him to the Empress. You will be responsible for his death."

Owain glanced at him in derision. "You are overdramatizing, Brother. The Empress has nothing to gain by killing your friend. The worst that can happen to him is that he will remain in gaol for a few weeks longer, and then he'll be ransomed or exchanged. He might suffer the King's displeasure, of course, but, well..."

The monk shook his head, but he could not well explain to Owain just why the Empress would have Hugh killed - and Cadfael himself, if she ever learnt of his role in this affair - without telling him everything about their mission and Stephen's orders, and Cadfael was not sure it was wise to do so.

"Now, I must go," the Welsh prince concluded.

"Wait," Cadfael stopped him as he reached the door. "Hugh is of no use to you dead. I need my herbs, and some light, to take care of him."

Owain glanced down at his prisoner. "He does seem in a poor state. Have no worries. You might be my prisoners, but I have no reason to mistreat you. I shall give orders; ask Parry, the gaoler, for whatever you want, and he will make sure you get it, as long as it is reasonable."

The monk nodded in half-hearted thanks, and Owain finally left, the door closing behind him with an eerie creak.


	13. Attacked

**Chapter 13**

Cadfael sat on the ground hardly made any softer by the straw, and he was beginning to get really bored. He had dutifully chanted each and every psalm and prayer he could remember, recited his Latin declensions several times over, paced from the wall to the door exactly two hundred and eleven times, and then he had been running out of pointless things to do. So he had eventually decided to muster his agitation, and he forced himself to remain seated, until he had a reason to be standing.

At least, Owain had been true to his word, and he had given orders for Cadfael's herbs to be given to him, along with some decent food, water, and even wine. He had even gone to the length of sending some clothes to replaces Hugh's tattered bliaud. All in all, it could have been much worse, although the monk wished he had some way to measure the passing of time. His best guess was that they were in the middle of the afternoon, but it was hard to say. He would have tried to guess the time from the gaoler's meals, but there did not seem to be much of pattern to them.

Hugh stirred slightly, and Cadfael moved to sit closer to him, keeping a concerned eye on his friend. He was very grateful to Owain for giving them some light down here. At least, now he could actually see what he was doing when he was taking care of Beringar, and the warmth of the fire was pleasant as well, although the cell did not gain much on sight. Cadfael had always been more at ease outside - which might seem strange for a monk. But, although he appreciated the safety and homeliness he felt in the abbey, he liked nothing more than working in his garden. Of course, in the winter he did not have any excuse to go there, but he was often called out on herbalist duties, and that made it bearable to remain inside the cloister for the rest of the time.

Absent-mindedly, he plucked a straw and began to twist it in a knot. He had been on a boat for a few months, chasing pirates near the shores of the Holy Land, and he knew interesting knots such as only sailors could make. The straw was too old and brittle for him to manage the most complex ones, but it only made the challenge more interesting.

"What time is it?"

Surprised at hearing Hugh's voice, Cadfael jumped slightly and dropped the straw. He hurriedly bent over his friend to check on him.

"Awake at last," he commented, trying to hide the relief he felt. And now at least he had someone to talk to. "As for the time, I don't know."

Passing a hand through his short, dark hair, Hugh sat up with a slight wince and glanced around him, noting the light and food. "Much cosier than it was before," he said with a raised eyebrow. "Would you happen to possess some unholy powers? Or did St. Winifred answer your prayers with such prodigality? And my stomach tells me it is lunch time. Or perhaps supper time, either will do."

With a chuckle, Cadfael collected some bread and meat, which he handed to his friend along with some water. "Neither, actually. But Owain was most understanding. On this matter, at any rate."

"I can't help but notice we are still in jail," Hugh nodded wryly as he took the offered meal.

However, he turned slightly green when he saw the meat, and settled for the water, which he sipped slowly. Cadfael gave him a stern glance.

"Eat something, at least."

His friend grimaced, but nodded and dutifully began to gnaw at the meat, although with little enthusiasm.

"So," he said between two bites, "Owain came down here?"

"While you were asleep, yes," the monk nodded uncomfortably. He was not looking forward to telling Hugh just what the Welsh prince had in store for them, yet he knew he would have to let him know sooner or later. Better for him to have some time to come to terms with it, rather than be taken by surprise at the last minute.

"What did he say? Any idea what he wants with us?"

Cadfael hesitated before answering, and his friend cast him a look that was first surprised, then suspicious.

"Yes," he relented at last. "He did say what he wanted with us."

"Well?" Hugh was getting slightly impatient now, and Cadfael could not really blame him.

"He said he would have let us go freely, if he did not need us for an exchange," the monk explained.

"An exchange? Could have been worse. Whom are we being traded for?"

"Well, it's not that simple. A relative of Owain's has been taken hostage, and he wants him back. The only problem is, it seems that this relative was taken by the Empress - so he wants to give you to her in exchange."

Hugh stopped eating and eyed his friend in dismay. "The Empress?"

"I'm afraid so," Cadfael nodded grimly. "I tried to talk Owain out of it, but..."

Beringar actually began to laugh. "Yes, I guess you would. To no avail, I presume."

"Indeed, you presume well." The monk tilted his head. "Am I missing something funny? You do realize that the Empress would have you killed, don't you?"

"I was trying _not _to think about that part," Hugh replied wryly. "But frankly - I can just see you arguing with Owain about it... speaking of that, what about you? Is our Welsh prince going to trade you as well?"

Cadfael shrugged. "No. Who would be interested in buying back a simple monk? Except a certain deputy sheriff, of course," he added hastily. "But I did not tell Owain that."

Beringar nodded thoughtfully. "Good."

Cadfael knew what his friend meant by that. If he was traded to the Empress, and if he did not come back... at least, the monk would know what had happened to him, and would be able to tell Aline, and later Giles. But he hoped heartily he would not have to fulfil such a task.

Being done eating, Hugh rose to his feet, although his moves were somewhat shaky, and walked to the door. Cadfael glanced at him curiously.

"What are you doing?"

"Just trying to find a way out," Beringar replied as he appraised the thickness of the door, and grimaced when he realized there was no way he could smash it open. He turned hopefully to his friend. "Do you know how to pick a lock?"

"If I did, you would know about it already," Cadfael disabused him. "Besides - how far would we get? I don't think you could run very far."

"Well, you'll forgive me for trying, I hope. Besides, it can't really be worse than waiting for the Empress to have me executed."

However, there was no way out, and after a while Hugh had to reconcile himself to that fact. Just like Cadfael, he eventually gave up and mustered his restlessness. With nothing else to do, the two men settled for talking about any subject that came to their minds: religion, herbs, even the Welsh language.

"Well, how do you say, 'I don't speak Welsh'"? Hugh asked.

"_Dwy ddim yn siarad Cymraeg_," Cadfael answered. "But frankly, you don't need that one. Just say something in English, and it will be clear enough that you don't speak Welsh..."

"Perhaps, but it might avoid me another thump..." Beringar grimaced as he thought about the way his last attempt to speak Welsh had ended. "Yours is an impossible language, really. Just pronouncing it is beyond me, poor Englishman."

"That's funny," Cadfael chuckled. "I used to think the same of the English language."

"Really?" Hugh grinned. "How many languages do you speak, by the way? Since you were in the Holy Land for quite some time, I'd wager you probably speak... whatever language they speak there."

"Ah - Arabic, yes. But I have not practiced it for nearly thirty years," the monk sighed. He thought wistfully of Maryam, a woman he had tenderly loved back in those days, and suddenly he felt older than he had in a long time. Yes, time had passed, their son had grown up, and now it was his turn to live fully through the present day... He noticed Hugh was looking at him curiously, and quickly reoriented the conversation. "What about you? Speak any foreign language?"

Hugh shrugged. "French, like most noblemen, I suppose. I never got many occasions to practice it, though."

"Let's pray you never get the chance," Cadfael murmured. He thought with dread of what would happen if a war with France was declared while England was still subject to so many rifts.

After that, they fell silent for a while, unwilling to get into a political discussion, and unable to really focus on any other subjects. They had nothing very pleasant on their minds at the moment, so they kept to themselves. Ironically enough, it was thanks to the silence that they heard a soft sound on the other side of the door. Sharing a glance, both men rose to their feet and approached the door slowly, unsure what to expect. Whoever was on the other side seemed very anxious not to make any noise.

"Think there are rats down there?" Hugh whispered.

Cadfael shook his head dumbly in answer. Surprisingly enough, there did not seem to be too many of the annoying creatures in the keep; then again, he remembered seeing at least two cats on his way down here, although he had hardly paid them much attention at the time. Besides, he was almost certain the sound had been made by a human being - by someone trying to open the door. Which meant he had the keys... But the lock was old and rusty, and they heard - distinctly this time - the scrape of metal as the key was slowly turned. It was completely incomprehensible. Who would come here in secret? No one knew of their predicament but Welshmen, and they would not go against Owain's wishes. They had no reason to. Both prisoners had absolutely nothing to offer; what little gold Hugh had had was probably in Cadwaladr's purse by now, and Cadfael had nothing of his own.

However, their questions would soon be answered, for a slight click indicated that the door was now open; all that remained was to push it. Hugh motioned for Cadfael to take position on one side of the door, while himself took the other side; whatever was going on, perhaps it was an occasion to escape...

Yet, they had not expected the door to suddenly burst open, probably propelled by a kick, and to see two men clad in black rush inside, sword in hand. On such occasions, there was seldom any time to think, only to act and react to whatever was going on. Cadfael did not wait to understand, as he kicked the first assailant in the legs to make him fall, while Beringar rushed at the second one to deal him a blow in the stomach. The two strangers had thought they would take the prisoners by surprise, but in the end they had fallen victims to their own scheme.

But they still had the advantage. They were young - as far as Cadfael could tell, in the flickering light of the torches - and quick, and they still had their weapons. The two prisoners were either not so young anymore, or weakened, and weaponless. Nevertheless, they fought for their lives, when the two killers, whoever had sent them, were most probably fighting for the lure of gain. Cadfael grabbed his opponent's wrists and tried to make him drop his weapon, but the man managed to shove him away and to raise his sword. The monk escaped the sharp blade only by a hairsbreadth and moved back, but all too soon he felt the hard, uneven stones of the wall against his back.

Too busy defending his own life, Cadfael had just enough time to cast a quick glance in Hugh's direction, but all he could make out was two dark figures struggling near the door. A muffled groan told the monk that one of them had dealt the other a shrewd blow, but he would have been unable to say who it was. He focused back on his own foe, who was walking to him, sword raised and ready to strike - the picture of a snake came to Cadfael's mind. Desperately, he tried to think of a way to fend the other man off, but could find none. At the last second, he jumped swiftly to his right; the sword tore the sleeve of his habit, but did not damage the skin.

Now Cadfael had a chance. The sword was heavy, and the killer would need some time to raise it again. The monk turned that time to good account and, coming closer to the other man, hit his hand as hard as he could, to make him drop the weapon. With a loud clank, it fell, and Cadfael quickly picked it up, before holding it to the other man's throat.

At that very moment, there was a loud noise outside the cell, then the sound of voices. Cadfael saw a dark and trim figure pass in front of him at a run, so quickly that he wondered whether he had really seen it or not. Suddenly worried, he peered at the darkness, trying to make something out.

"Hugh?" he called, uncertainty in his voice.

"Here," came a swift answer. Beringar came out from behind the door; judging from the state of his clothes, he had probably been down in the straw - he even had a few stems left in his short dark hair. Cadfael noticed with relief that he did not seem to be injured any worse than he had been before.

Outside, the voices grew louder, and soon enough a dozen men at least, wearing Owain's colours, gathered near the door, until Owain himself entered. The Welsh prince looked very unhappy, and his eyes grew colder when he saw the sword in Cadfael's hand, and the man he was threatening. The said man looked desperate, and when he saw Owain a hushed cry escaped his lips. He glanced at his prince, then at Cadfael, and without further warning threw himself at the sword. Having not expected such a drastic move, the monk could not do anything, and he felt the blade go through the other man's throat as blood poured down the sword on his hands. Feeling sickened, he dropped the weapon, while his former opponent fell limply to the ground, and watched the dead man at his feet in silent horror. Dark blood kept gushing out of the corpse's slit throat.

"I _demand _an explanation!" Owain said. He sounded furious and aghast.

Cadfael looked up at him. "I am afraid I have none," he replied, and he had the satisfaction of hear that his voice was steady, in spite of his inner turmoil and distress at having caused another death, against his oath as a monk. If he had killed unwillingly, did that mean he had broken his vows? How would he dare to present himself again to Father Abbot? It had not even been self-defence. The man was at his mercy, and he had not been able to prevent him from... No, it was not his place to judge. How arrogant would that be? He would tell the truth, confess all - _all _his sins to the Abbot, and then submit to any punishment Radulfus would see fit to give him.

"You killed this man," Owain said accusingly in English, as he glanced down at the corpse.

"He did not!" Hugh protested immediately on behalf of his friend. "The man threw himself at the sword. It was not Cadfael's fault."

That was the first time both noblemen came really face to face, and they silently appraised each other. Then suddenly, Owain turned back to the entrance of the cell.

"Cledwyn!" he called dryly, turning back to Welsh. "You are the one who made me come here. Do you have an explanation for this?"

A man walked forward and nodded deferentially. "Well, my lord, I was going to the stables and I saw one of the guards of the keeps unconscious on the ground, so I thought the prisoners had escaped and I came directly to tell you..."

"Thank you," Owain replied scathingly, "but that is not what I was asking for - I already know all that."

"If you would allow me," intervened Cadfael, who had by then steadied himself. "I do not know who these men were..."

"These men?" the Welsh prince repeated.

"There were two - I think one of them escaped before you arrived. All I know is that they tried to come in here, as discreetly as possible, and then to kill us. They asked nothing, said nothing. That is all I know."

Owain fumbled unhappily with the hilt of his sword, then turned toward the men who had followed him down to the gaol.

"Well? Does anyone know who this dead man is?"

A few of the Welshmen bent forward to get a better look at the corpse, but they all shook their heads. Cadfael was not surprised; the two attackers had not even bothered to hide their faces, which meant they must not be too well known, or that they were overly confident they could kill the two prisoners easily. But dead men told no tales, and the only one who knew the truth was already far away.

Eventually, since there was nothing more to learn down there, Owain left, giving instructions to remove the corpse, have the door closed and new guards put on watch. He had not accused Cadfael of murder again, but he did not really need to; the monk blamed himself enough for the two of them. He knew he should not, but a nasty voice kept murmuring in the back of his mind that if he had been just a little faster, that man would not be dead.

"Are you all right?" Hugh asked, as soon as they were left alone.

"Yes," Cadfael answered mechanically. "Not even a scratch. You?"

"That's not what I meant," his friend replied softly, and the monk winced slightly. Beringar was sometimes too perceptive for his taste.

"I am fine," he said, answering the unasked question. "Or I will be. I just wish..."

"You were holding the sword, but he did not die at your hand," Hugh insisted, dark eyes set on his friend's soft blue.

"Yes, I know," Cadfael said. Even to his own ears, he did not sound convincing, but Hugh knew better than to push the matter, and he was grateful for that. He would need to think about it on his own - pray, perhaps, and ask for God's guidance. Meanwhile... meanwhile it would be just him, and his guilty soul.

However, there were other matters to attend to. He had not been able to prevent this death, but there might be others he _could _prevent, if given the chance. The monk repeated dutifully to Hugh what Owain had said in Welsh, then they fell silent; both had much to ponder. This attack was so unexpected and unexplainable... It had not been a madman's act; the attack had been planned, and carried out with relative efficiency. Cadfael had the frustrating feeling that something kept escaping his notice, and if only he could pinpoint what it was...

But he could not, and after that it was a long and dull evening for both men. At some point, Hugh fell asleep, and Cadfael listened quietly to his soft breathing until he too dozed off.

The creaking of the door being pushed open awoke Cadfael. _No, not again! _he thought immediately. Another attack? So soon after the failure of the first?

The monk made out a small figure edging its way inside the cell, and he tensed, ready to spring to action when the intruder came closer. But whoever he was, he did not; he just remained standing there for a little while, before calling softly.

"Brother Cadfael?"

Cadfael nearly let a cry of surprise escape his lips. The voice was Dewydd's.


	14. Escape And Confession

**Chapter 14**

* * *

"What are you doing here!?" Cadfael exclaimed.

Of all the people he would have expected to come down to their cell, Dewydd was certainly not on the list. Yet, there was no mistake. Now that he had completely awoken and his eyes were accustomed to the dim, flickering light of the torches, Cadfael recognized the familiar face of the former novice.

"Hush!" the boy murmured. "Please, Brother, there is no time to explain. We must leave before someone realizes what is going on!"

Cadfael wondered for a second. Should he trust the Welsh lad, when he had disappeared so unexpectedly in the middle of the night, right before they were attacked by riders, and when he was supposed to keep watch? Then again, being frightened was not a crime, even though it did border on betrayal. And if fear indeed had made Dewydd abandon them, the bravery he had shown by coming down here to free them made amends for his previous shortcomings. Besides, what choice was there? Either they followed the boy, and took whatever destiny had in store for them, or they stayed in their cell until Hugh was traded to the Empress and... Cadfael preferred not to think about what would happen then, so he just nodded to Dewydd.

"Fine," he said in a low voice. "We're coming. But you will have some explaining to do, young lad."

Dewydd looked down. In shame? "I swear I can explain," he whispered. "Just give me a chance."

Cadfael stood up and kneeled at his friend's side. Hugh was usually a light sleeper, but he was still injured, which accounted for his being still fast asleep. He woke up with a start when Cadfael's hand brushed his shoulder lightly, and made a move to grasp the dagger he did not have at his waist before he realized who had roused him. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at his friend, then saw Dewydd and his expression became wary.

"We must go," the monk murmured.

Hugh had as many questions as his friend, and it was only his trust in Cadfael that prevented him from nagging at the boy until he had all the answers he wanted. However, he too could understand the necessity for swiftness and silence, and he merely nodded, although the gleam in his dark eyes was plain enough as to what he intended to do once they were safe. For the moment, though, he merely rose to his feet, swaying only a little as he did so. Cadfael cast him a worried glance.

"Can you walk?" he enquired softly.

Beringar shrugged. "Yes," he said. "I think," he added through his teeth, and the monk could not help but smile a little. It would be all right, he tried to reassure himself.

Dewydd had been squirming out of impatience all this time, and eagerly went out first to show them the way. Cadfael remembered to grab his herbs on the way out, and followed him, side by side with Hugh. He nearly cried out when he noticed the guards, all three of them, seated at the same, wobbly-legged table he had noticed when they had been taken down there; but almost at once, he realized they were fast asleep, and he cast Dewydd a scrutinizing look. The boy shrugged.

"Sleeping potion. I'll explain later."

Whatever had been used in this potion, it was obviously very efficient; none of the guards so much as stirred when the two prisoners and their saviour crept by stealthily. They reached the stairs without a problem, and climbed them quickly. As they came out, Cadfael took a long breath in. Fresh air, after days spent in the keep, felt surprisingly good. He should be used to cells, being a monk, but he was not. He looked at the sky with relish; it was night, a particularly dark, moonless night, actually.

Now that they were actually out - and it had been much easier than Cadfael would have thought - he wondered where they would be going. However, Dewydd seemed to have a very clear idea on the matter, for he headed to his right without any hesitation. But something was not right - there should be more guards. The monk lightly tapped the boy's shoulder to get his attention.

"Where are the other guards?" he mouthed.

Dewydd grinned. "A diversion," he said quickly. "That way now."

Sharing a curious glance, Cadfael and Hugh followed. This escape seemed to have been carefully planned, after all, and not set up on a whim.

They quickly left the vicinity of the castle, and found themselves in the town itself. At this time of the night - Cadfael could not tell exactly what hour it was, but probably well after midnight - there was no one in the streets, which suited them fine. Cadfael wondered what was going to happen next. Would they hide in the woods, or try to get back to Shrewsbury? Yet, without horses, they would be recaptured all too easily, and this escape would have been all for nothing. Then what?

The monk's curiosity was soon to be satisfied. With the same odd assurance he had shown so far, Dewydd guided them to a building which, according to its shop sign, was a tavern. A tavern? Cadfael hesitated, but already the boy was knocking softly at the door, which was immediately opened. A tall, strong woman now stood in the doorway, relief etched on her features when she saw Dewydd.

"My boy - come in, quick!" she ordered, and he obeyed with a grin. The woman then gazed at Cadfael and Hugh, and she switched to English. "Those are your friends, Dewydd?"

"Yes, Aunt Ceridwen," he nodded, and she opened the door a bit wider, gesturing for the two to enter.

Somewhat taken aback, they complied, and found themselves in a long, warm room, with numerous tables and chairs. The sturdy woman led them to a back room, much smaller, that looked a lot like a kitchen. All this was so unlike what Cadfael and Hugh had expected, that it took them some more time to recover from the surprise. Ceridwen took advantage of that time to take some hot water from the hearth, and she poured them some tea. It was the first time they had had something warm since they had left Gloucester, and they gladly took the cups, sitting down at Dewydd's incitement. However, Hugh kept staring at Ceridwen.

"You are Dewydd's aunt?" he asked, somewhat bluntly.

"Actually, she was my nurse," the boy explained. "But my mother died when I was very young, so she was almost family."

Ceridwen smiled proudly when she heard that. "I was so heartbroken when I heard you were in Gloucester, and so glad when you came back!"

"What news...?" Cadfael began, frowning.

"That's right, I need to explain now," Dewydd admitted. "But first - is Gwendolyn back yet?"

"No," the woman replied, heaving a sigh. "But I'm certain she will be back soon. She is stealthy as a cat, when she wants to. Not at all lady-like," she concluded mournfully.

"Gwendolyn?" Hugh enquired, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"My foster sister," Dewydd specified. "The diversion," he added sheepishly, and Cadfael could not help but snigger.

"Enough stalling, now," the monk said. "We're listening to your explanation, young man, and you should better give us a satisfying one."

He saw Hugh lean back in his seat as he sipped his tea, and noticed the shade of pain flitting by on his angular features. The monk promised himself to take a look at his friend later, but now was not the time.

"I suppose I should start with the reason why I was at the abbey of Gloucester," Dewydd sighed. "First, you need to know that my complete name is Dewydd ap Goronwy. I am Prince Owain's cousin."

Cadfael's eyebrows rose nearly up to his hairline, betraying his surprise, and Hugh choked on his tea. Both stared at their young companion.

"Well, I suspected you were of noble breeding," the monk admitted. "But I did not quite go that far."

Dewydd smiled a little. "I didn't know whether I should trust you, so I thought it was safer to say nothing. I am in Owain's favour, and since both my parents died when I was two, he raised me almost as a son, or perhaps a brother."

"Then why did you take the trouble to set up this escape?" Cadfael asked. "Why not just ask Owain to free..." a sudden thought struck him, and he gasped out of surprise. "Owain's relative! The one he wanted to exchange for Hugh! That's you, isn't it?"

The boy looked a little surprised. "I didn't know he wanted to exchange you for me," he said apologetically to Beringar. "But yes, that would be me. As for your first question - I'm getting to that. Please don't interrupt me." He frowned, and that made him look so much like a smaller version of Owain that it was impossible to doubt their relatedness, and Cadfael wondered how he had not noticed it earlier. Then again, he had seen Owain twice in his life only, and then he had had other things on his mind.

"Yes, yes," he said soothingly. "Go on."

"As I was saying, I am close to Owain. That's why the Englishmen..." he looked apologetically at Hugh once again, but the deputy sheriff waved the matter away as a trivial thing. "...that's why they wanted to capture me. To have a means to force him to do things he would have not accepted otherwise. Or at least, that's what I assumed."

"I think you're right," Beringar commented.

"However, I suspect Cadwaladr had something to do with my capture," Dewydd continued. "The escort was put together by him, mostly, and they nigh on let me be captured without a fight. Cadwaladr is Owain's younger brother, but they disagree on numerous matters. And Owain doesn't have children, so his succession is still in question. I think Cadwaladr feels threatened by me, because of the influence I have on Owain."

It made sense, so far.

"What then?" Hugh pressed the Welsh lad.

"I think Robert of Gloucester wanted to keep my capture a secret, so Stephen would not suspect what he had in mind. I'm not sure what his plans were, but I believe he wanted to ensure, if not Owain's support, then at least his neutrality, so as to corner the King between his armies and the Welsh land. It was this desire to keep my presence secret that made him ask Father Bertolf to keep me in the abbey, seemingly as a novice."

"The guards at the gates of the abbey!" Cadfael snapped his fingers. "They were there for you!"

"Indeed," Dewydd nodded gravely. "I was closely watched, although I sometimes managed to slip away for a few hours. When I heard a Welsh monk had arrived, I decided to take the risk of asking you to take a message to my family. But I was wary about you, because I didn't know you, and I eavesdropped a little."

The confession made Cadfael smile. "I knew I heard a sound."

"That you did," Hugh said, sounding a bit disgruntled, "and I am blind and deaf not to have noticed all this."

"I was very careful," the boy clarified, "and when I learnt you were loyal to King Stephen, I decided to take the risk of asking for your help. But I thought you would help me only if I had something to give you in exchange, and when I discovered that Humphrey was more than likely responsible for the theft of the dagger, I knew it was my chance. I came to you, and you know what happened then."

"Indeed," the monk said thoughtfully. "But what about the night we were taken prisoner, and after?"

The boy looked a bit ashamed at that. "I saw them coming. I knew that if I fled, I wouldn't have the time to warn you. But if I stayed and was taken prisoner... I saw Cadwaladr. I was afraid he would take advantage of the occasion to get rid of me, once and for all. All his riders are loyal to him - they would die for him. They would certainly keep their lips sealed if he asked them to. It was a golden opportunity for him, since everybody still believed me to be in Gloucester."

There was a silence after that, as Hugh and Cadfael pondered everything Dewydd had just told them. It made sense, and sincerity was etched on the boy's features. They could not doubt his word.

"So you came here by your own means, and you decided to free us," Beringar eventually prompted him.

"Yes," Dewydd admitted. "I do not know how much influence Cadwaladr has. I couldn't trust anyone, except of course my good Aunt Ceridwen, and Gwendolyn. So I came to hide here. I had to free you - and now, I also need your help."

Something had been bothering Cadfael for a little while, and he finally pinpointed it with satisfaction. "Of course! The killers must have been sent by Cadwaladr too!"

"Killers?" Dewydd frowned in confusion. "What killers?"

"Two men tried to kill us in our cell," the monk explained briefly. "We told you Owain had intended to trade Hugh in exchange for you. But Cadwaladr could not allow that. If, as you said, the escort picked by him did not really try to protect you, he must have known you would probably accuse him - not to mention, if he feared your influence on Owain, he would have done anything to keep you away in Gloucester. So he did the simplest thing he could; he tried to get rid of us."

"But I thought Owain wanted to trade only Lord Beringar," the boy protested. "Why kill you as well?"

"Because Cadfael would have been an annoying witness," Hugh said grimly. "And at this point, what would be one more murder to Cadwaladr?"

They shared a glance. All had been explained, but that left them in a tight spot. They did not know who to trust, or even what exactly should their next step be.

"I'm not sure what to do now," Dewydd admitted honestly. "I thought you might help me, but if you choose to go back to Shrewsbury and forget you ever came here, I can't blame you. I brought you a lot of trouble, I know, and I'm sorry for that. I know that's not an excuse, but I didn't feel I had much of a choice."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Cadfael berated him. "Now that we're here, we might as well see this affair through. Although I must admit, family rivalry and struggles for power are not exactly in my field of expertise. What do you think we should do, Hugh?"

The deputy sheriff rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He needed a shave, but then so did Cadfael. The monk thought ruefully about his tonsure. What a state it must be in...

"As far as I can tell, there is only one thing to do," Beringar finally said. "We need to speak with Owain. And to do so, the only way is to get back to the castle."

Cadfael was about to raise an objection, when someone knocked at the door. Everyone stilled, but Ceridwen rose to her feet calmly.

"Don't move," she said in her heavily accented English. "I will go and see. If there is any danger, I will speak loud and stall them, to give you time to escape by the back door."

They nodded and she left the kitchen. The two friends and Dewydd waited in a tense silence, expecting to hear shouts and soldiers' heavy footsteps at any time, but nothing happened. Cadfael was about to stand up and go see what was going on, in spite of the danger, when Ceridwen came back. She was followed by a girl clad in boy's clothes, who seemed to be the same age as Dewydd - fifteen or sixteen - with a mischievous gleam in her dark brown eyes, and a contented smile on her lips. Her long black hair had been tied in a braid that left the girl her freedom of movement. Cadfael knew, even before Dewydd introduced her, that she could only be Gwendolyn.

"You're late," Ceridwen scolded the girl in English. "Can you imagine how worried I was? No, of course not! Well, tell us what happened!"

Gwendolyn had a crystalline laugh, and answered in Welsh. "These guards are stupid oafs, I swear."

"Don't swear, and speak English - we have guests," her mother replied scathingly, and the girl made a childish, sulky pout, but went on without a comment.

"I annoyed them and I made enough noise for them to come after me, and they did. So I led them around. I know the castle much better than any of them, anyway."

"She lived there with me when we were children," Dewydd explained discreetly.

"In the dark, it was easy to lead them astray," she continued. "When they came too close, I just stopped making noise. In the end, I climbed the wall of the castle to get away."

Judging from Ceridwen's pursed lips and her disapproving glare, it was not the first time Gwendolyn had pulled off such a feat. She seemed to be a tomboy, an impression which was backed by her features, too angular for her to be really beautiful according to normal standards, but that did not take away any of her natural charm and contagious lightheartedness. As he observed her, Cadfael felt like he was watching one of these birds that could never be kept in captivity.

"After that, I just waited for them to give up, and then I came back here," Gwendolyn concluded.

"You did a great job," Dewydd grinned, and she smiled back.

"Don't encourage her", Ceridwen muttered, but she was pointedly ignored by the two children. The woman looked heavenwards and sighed.

The girl sat down near Hugh and poured herself some tea, before looking at her mother's two extra guests. "So, what do we do now?"

"That's what we were discussing when you arrived," Cadfael said. "Actually, you were saying something about going directly to Owain, Hugh."

Beringar nodded. "Yes, and you were about to object, I think," he said teasingly.

"It would be too dangerous to go back to the castle," the monk replied. "We'd be recognized too easily."

"I could go," Gwendolyn offered immediately.

"No," Ceridwen cut her immediately, and Dewydd concurred.

"You think I'm not able to do it?" Gwendolyn asked scathingly. "Yet I was able to fool the guards, and quite easily."

"That's not the problem," Dewydd said in a reasonable voice, "but I don't want to put you in danger. Cadwaladr wouldn't hesitate to kill you. Besides, to Owain you were just a servant's daughter. He wouldn't listen to you. No, if anyone must go, it's me."

"No!" Cadfael and Hugh exclaimed at the same time, then shared a smile.

The boy frowned, and made a pout that looked a lot like the one Gwendolyn had made moments before.

"You would be recognized even more easily than us," Cadfael explained. "Cadwaladr would know about your presence long before Owain, most likely, and then your life would not be worth a dime."

"Then what?" Dewydd asked.

"Actually," Hugh said wryly, "the only one who can go is me."

They all stared at him.

"Dewydd is too easily recognizable," Beringar explained patiently. "Owain would probably not listen to Ceridwen or Gwendolyn - no offence meant."

The girl must have had a soft spot for him, for instead of scowling she accepted his apology gracefully. Cadfael sniggered, and his friend gave him a mock glare.

"Brother Cadfael's Benedictine habit would make him recognizable at ten paces," Hugh went on, pointedly ignoring the monk's harrumphing. "That leaves only me."

"But you're the only one among us who doesn't speak Welsh," Cadfael pointed out. "That's a problem."

Hugh shrugged. "Well, I'm not so thrilled about this whole thing either, but I don't see any other solution. Just teach me how to say 'I'm busy, don't have time to talk now', and it should be enough to get to Owain. And I'm quite certain he will listen to me, whether I speak in English or in Welsh."

Cadfael glanced unhappily at his friend, but the fact was, he did not have any better idea. Yet, it was a little too risky for his liking.

"And how will you convince Owain that you are telling the truth? He doesn't know you, after all," Ceridwen interjected.

"True," Hugh admitted.

"That's easy enough," Dewydd said. "This ring was my father's, and Owain will recognize it without a shade of doubt."

He took a golden ring with a blue stone off his middle finger and gave it to Hugh, who nodded and put it on his own finger for safekeeping.

"Well, nothing more will be done tonight in any case," Cadfael concluded, still unhappy about the situation. "I think we'd better sleep on this. We can take a final decision tomorrow, when we are well-rested. I for one am in no shape to think."

"The good Brother is right," Ceridwen agreed firmly. "It's no time for good Christians to be up. To bed, everyone!"

The youngest two protested half-heartedly, for principles' sake, but a glare from the sturdy woman silenced them. She turned to her guests.

"I'm sorry, but I have to hide you in the cellar. Everybody will be looking for you, and I can't take the risk that a customer or a neighbour might see you. And the same goes for you, Dewydd," she added sternly. "The three of you can stay together. I'm sorry for the lack of privacy."

"It's all right," Cadfael reassured her. "It's much better than our previous, uh... bedroom."

Ceridwen smiled a little at that, and she led them to a trapdoor that led to the cellar. It was a bit dark, but she lit several torches. There was also a basement window that opened on to the backyard, and would supply some light during the day. The room was reasonably warm and dry, and Ceridwen had prepared a good stack of blankets for her guests - more than enough for them to sleep comfortably. They thanked her, and bade her goodnight. Then Cadfael gathered his herbs and turned to his friend.

"I'd like to have another look at your wound," he said.

For once, Hugh did not protest, but complied willingly, and removed his bliaud and shirt. "It seems I am always the one who needs to be looked after," he joked.

"That's normal," Cadfael replied in a mock haughty voice. "I am twice your age, young man. My experience is worth something."

"Ouch - I never had any doubt about that," Hugh said hastily when the monk began to prod the wound. His quick surrender made Cadfael smile.

Once satisfied, he straightened up. "It's healing reasonably well," he conceded. "Just avoid moving too abruptly, if you don't want to be in my care for another fortnight."

"Perish the thought," Hugh muttered as he lay down on the blankets he had appropriated for himself.

"Come again?" the monk asked threateningly.

"...nothing."

"Thought so."

With relish, Cadfael curled up in his own blankets, and fell asleep faster than you could say "Matins".


	15. Caught Again

**Chapter 15**

Edit : Some mistakes regarding my use of Welsh (and Welsh names) in this story have been brought to my attention. Thanks to Candia for noticing these and letting me know. The aforementioned mistakes have now been fixed.

* * *

A stray sunbeam passing through the basement window brushed Cadfael's face, and the monk moaned slightly in his sleep before shrinking back a little, unwilling to wake up just yet, when he was so comfortably curled up in warm and thick blankets. However, ten minutes later the annoying sunbeam caught up with him, causing him to open his eyes. He closed them again almost immediately though, the brightness being too much for his sleep-filled pupils, and sat up with a long yawn. It was rather late, he realized with some surprise; it was not like him to oversleep like that. Then again, the night had been rather short, and he felt much better now than he had in days.

He cast a quick glance around him and saw that his two companions were up already, both talking quietly while sharing some food. They had not noticed his awakening yet, for they had their backs turned on him, but an unintentional rustle of blankets made Hugh turn in his friend's direction, and he smiled when he saw the tousled monk rub his eyes, yawning again.

"Awake yet?" he asked teasingly.

"Awake? No. But I'm up, if that's what you were asking," Cadfael grumbled.

"Not a morning person, are you?"

"You're not, either," the monk pointed out.

"Never said I was," Hugh retorted with a grin, and Cadfael rolled his eyes.

"It's a bit too early for me to find a clever answer," he said as an excuse. "However, I do feel like having a bite of... whatever it is you are eating."

Rising to his feet, the monk made his way towards Hugh and a silent Dewydd, and sat with them. Beringar handed him a mug filled with tea, and a slice of bread. There was also some cheese, Cadfael noticed with satisfaction. Not that they had been starved in Owain's gaol, but his last meal had been over twelve hours ago, and the warm tea seemed to him the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted.

"What time is it?" he asked between two bites.

"A few minutes after nine, I think," Hugh replied.

"It's really late!" the monk exclaimed. He had thought it was no more than half past seven. Usually, he was up at dawn for Lauds.

"Yes," Hugh shrugged, "but since we had nothing to do in particular, I thought we'd let you sleep."

"I've been neglecting my duties horribly," Cadfael said ruefully, but Hugh laughed his guilt away.

"After a night like this one, I don't think even Father Radulfus would hold a little sleep against you."

"I hope he'll say the same thing when I make my confession to him," the monk replied wryly.

He heaved a small sigh. Of course, it was just an office missed, and given the circumstances it could be easily forgiven. But that was not all the matter. Truth to tell, he did not really mind whether Radulfus gave him penance or not. He had to respect the offices, not lest he be punished, but because he _wanted _to. Yet, ever since he had left on this venture, he had wondered more than once if his loyalty to his vows had not been wavering. Perhaps his mind had been too busy with everything else to properly focus on his duties, but he had to be honest with himself and be certain that he was still a monk, not only in name but also in deeds. And sometimes he wondered with dread if the answer to such a question would be to his liking. Seeing his son again, and his old friends, and feeling truly the rush of life in the World all at once... perhaps it had been a little too much for him. He would have some thinking to do, when he got back to the abbey.

"...fael?" Hugh was looking at him oddly, concern showing in his dark eyes.

"Hmm? Excuse me, my mind was elsewhere," the monk replied sheepishly, shrugging his doubts off. Now was not the time for such an insight.

Beringar still looked curious, but did not push the matter. "I was saying we should probably decide on what we are going to do now."

"Ah - yes, of course," Cadfael murmured. "Well, you were right yesterday when you said we should try to speak to Owain; but there is still the question of how we are going to do it."

His friend raised an eyebrow. "We talked about that yesterday evening."

"Yes, but I don't like it," the monk admitted plainly.

"Quite frankly," Hugh admitted as he refilled his mug of tea, "I don't either. I'm not suicidal, and the idea of going through a whole castle full of Welsh-speaking people doesn't fill me with joy. But I don't know what else we can do. Though, if you had an idea during the night, pray tell."

"No, I didn't," Cadfael sighed. And he was not about to admit he had done little else than sleep ever since he had laid down. Then he added reluctantly, "_Mae na ddim amser i fi siarad nawr._"

Beringar stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"It means 'I don't have time to speak now'," the monk explained. "That might come in handy."

"If I manage to pronounce it," Hugh grumbled, not quite missing Dewydd's snigger.

However, although it did take some time for him to get it right, he eventually managed to pronounce the Welsh words properly, with a lot of help from his two companions. The foreign syllables rolled uneasily on his tongue, but after over an hour's practice, it sounded the same as any Welshman would have said it.

"Good," Cadfael eventually said, nodding his satisfaction. "Just try to sound a little more casual and that should be all right."

"For someone who lives so close to the border of Wales," Dewydd quipped, "you certainly had a lot of trouble getting a simple sentence right."

"I've been resisting Cadfael's very best efforts to get me to learn the language, I'm afraid," Hugh replied wryly.

"But I trust you'll be much more accommodating from now on," the monk grinned. "Nothing like a life-threatening situation to motivate the most stubborn."

His friend let out an annoyed _humph_, but did not protest, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

They agreed that Hugh should try to get inside the castle in the evening, when everybody would be eating dinner; that way, he was much less likely to be stopped by a guard, or to be asked questions. That left a good ten hours to wait in the cellar of Dewydd's "aunt", and Cadfael had thought they would get bored quickly, but the day was actually quite pleasant. Ceridwen came down from time to time, and no one could find anything suspicious with the owner of a tavern going down to the cellar. She could not stay long, but she brought food, and clean clothes, and a bucket of fresh water for her guests to wash. Cadfael and Dewydd taught Hugh a few more useful sentences, and his first tries at pronouncing them made Owain's cousin burst out laughing at times, but Beringar took it good-humouredly. Several times, Cadfael even suspected he mispronounced the words on purpose, to lighten his two companions' mood; but if that was the case, he did it in a convincing manner.

Nightfall came sooner than Hugh would have expected, perhaps because each passing second brought him closer to the moment when he would have to leave the safety of their hiding place to look for a man who was quite likely to try to capture him on sight. Well, as long as he could actually _talk _to Owain, it would not be too bad. Then again, if it was Cadwaladr he met first... No, he should probably not think about that. Hugh was not a coward, but it would take an insane man to be completely devoid of feelings in such circumstances, and he did feel some anxiety when he thought of what laid ahead.

However, he was careful not to let any of this show on his features, and although he was certain that Cadfael knew him too well to be fooled, the pretense would help both of them remain composed. If there was another way... but there was not, and they both knew it.

"Time to go," Hugh finally said as he leapt to his feet.

He could still see the reluctance in his friend's eyes, but the monk nodded nonetheless.

"Won't you need a sword?"

"Perhaps," Beringar agreed, "but I doubt there is one anywhere nearby. Besides, my going weaponless might help persuade Owain that my intentions are nothing but pure." He smiled wryly at the thought. Owain would think him crazy, to surrender himself back to his captor.

"Wait," Dewydd interrupted. He fumbled with a small bundle and dug out a dagger. "I picked this up from the guards on the way, while I was coming to rescue you. Thought it might come in handy. Take it."

Hugh accepted the weapon and quickly tested its balance. The dagger was old and worn, the leather tape around its handle cracked and brittle, but it was nevertheless a good weapon, not pretty but efficient. It would be more than sufficient to serve Hugh's purpose, since he hoped he would not have to use it - and if it came to fighting, anyway, chances were good that no matter the weapon, he would end up either dead or a captive.

"Thank you," he said as he settled the sheath at his waist.

That matter being taken care of, they waited for Ceridwen to signal to them when the way was clear. Once she did, Hugh went up, while the two others remained hidden - no reason to tempt fate, as long as moving was not a necessity.

"Godspeed," he heard Cadfael say before Ceridwen closed the trap door behind him. Now, he was on his own, he thought grimly, but he would not fail his friends.

"Here," the sturdy woman beside him handed him a piece of white cloth.

At first bewildered, Hugh then realized there was a rough map drawn on it, and after he squinted at it for a few seconds, he recognized the layout of a castle. No need to ask what it was - after all, there was only one castle in the vicinity.

"I used to live there, when Dewydd and Gwen were still small children," Ceridwen explained softly. "I made this from memory, but it should be accurate enough."

He nodded. "Thank you. It will be useful. I couldn't very well stop and ask my way, not in English."

But she shook her head. "No, thank _you_. For helping Dewydd. He is like a son to me."

"I noticed that," Hugh murmured softly. "He is lucky to have you."

Ceridwen turned slightly away, as though embarrassed by the praise. "This is the back door," she said gruffly. "That way, you won't have to cross the main room, with all the customers."

He acknowledged the statement and, without a glance behind, made his way through the backyard. In the dark, he stumbled on the uneven ground, and felt a stabbing pain in his injured left side. It was healed enough that it would not hinder him, but fighting under those conditions would not be pleasant. He comforted himself by thinking about the nice holiday he would take once he was back in Shrewsbury. Some time to spend just with Aline and Giles - and, when the abbot would allow it, with Giles' godfather, of course...

He realized he was getting distracted and tried to focus on the task at hand. He had now left the backyard and found himself in a small alley. If he followed it, it would certainly lead him to a more important street. The town was not that big, after all - smaller than Shrewsbury, at any rate. And he had not even thought to enquire about its name... Eh, well, it would probably have been some unpronounceable Welsh designation anyway.

As he had anticipated, the small alley did lead to the main street of the town, and that in turn led directly to the castle. That was easy enough, he could not get lost. On the bad side, there were still quite a few people wandering about their business, even though it was already after Vespers. Hugh forced himself to look free and easy, as though his presence there was perfectly normal, and began to walk up the street with measured relaxation - just like someone who would just be taking a stroll before dinner. His only worry was being recognized - that or _not _being recognized; it was a town small enough for most people to know one another, and the presence of someone who had never been seen before might not escape notice.

Yet, as he walked, no one seemed to pay Hugh the slightest heed, and he thanked God for his dark eyes and hair which made him look much like any other Welshman. It would have been much harder to go unnoticed, had he had his sergeant's long blond hair and blue eyes.

He was beginning to think that he was going to succeed and get to the castle, when someone approached him; a merchant, or so it seemed, who appeared to be actively looking for someone else, as far as Hugh could tell from the way his eyes darted everywhere.

"_Ddiheura 'm , 'm arglwydd , namyn ganfuoch 'm ferch?_" he asked politely.

Hugh recognized none of the words he used, but forced himself to remain composed. The man had remained polite, so he must not suspect just who he was talking to. He was probably asking what time of the day it was, or perhaps trying to sell something. Beringar put a polite but distant expression on his face and tried to remember the words Cadfael had taught him earlier in the day. For a moment, he could not recall what they were, but before he had the time to really lose his nerve, the words poured out on their own, to his relief.

"_Mae na ddim amser i fi siarad nawr._"

The merchant did not look fully convinced, and Hugh wondered if he had mispronounced one of the words, but, if that was the case, it was too late to rectify it. Perhaps he should have pretended to be eating something, so as to hide any slips of the tongue... Or perhaps he did not look busy enough, for someone who did not "have time to speak now". At any rate, he did not intend to stay to find out, and he walked away, with more speed than before, leaving behind him a merchant who looked quite vexed. He probably thought that Hugh had very bad manners...

Fortunately, Beringar was not approached again, and a few minutes later he arrived at the castle. All he needed to do now was to get inside... Which might not be that easy with the guards at the door. Hugh decided to gamble with nerve, and he headed to the gates of the castle, a busy look plastered on his face. The closest guard noticed him striding in their direction and stepped forward.

"_Beth ydy 'ch busnes i mewn..._"

Hugh did not give him time to finish his sentence - he was probably asking about his business in the castle, or close enough. "_Mae na ddim amser i fi siarad nawr!_" he snapped back haughtily, like a Welsh lord might have.

And, ignoring the stunned guard completely, he stepped inside the precinct of Owain's fortress.

* * *

Cadfael had never liked waiting. He had learnt some patience over the years, but nevertheless, he still felt restless, knowing that his closest friend was taking all the risks, and aware that there was little he could do about it. At least, he was not the only one to be annoyed by the wait; Dewydd, being younger, was also more fidgety, and his line of thought was obvious from the numerous glances he cast at the trap door above their heads. The boy had only one thing on his mind; going out himself and thwarting Cadwaladr's plans. But, though it might be a braver thing to do, it was also a more foolish one, and Cadfael had no intention of letting him go if he lost his grip on himself.

The monk was about to suggest they pray together - if only to take the boy's mind off their precarious situation - when the trap door opened, and Gwendolyn came down with ease. Once again, she was wearing boy's clothes, and Cadfael wondered whether her mother approved of this habit. Probably not, but given the circumstances... However, he quickly forgot all thoughts of fashion when he realized the girl looked grim and nervous.

"We have a problem," she said in Welsh.

"What problem?" Cadfael and Dewydd asked at the same time, worried.

"Owain, he's not in the castle," she explained in hushed tones. "I saw him leave the town, going north, with a good fifty men. They say he's after the escaped prisoners, and he thinks they've headed north."

Cadfael closed his eyes in dismay, while Dewydd moaned, "Oh, noooo..." All the risks Hugh was taking were for nothing, and they could not even warn him... Or could they?

"I have to tell Hugh," the monk announced, his decision taken.

But Gwendolyn held him back. "He's probably already in the castle, you won't catch up with him. It's no use. Better to wait for Owain to come back, and then..."

But she did not have time to finish her sentence, for her mother put her head through the opened trap door. Ceridwen had a panicked look on her face, and her voice was shaking slightly, although she did her best to hide it.

"Quick, you must come up," she whispered in English, her accent thicker due to the stress. She was so frantic that she had forgotten Hugh was not there and thus, she could use Welsh. "There are guards at the door!"

Cadfael leapt to his feet. "Guards? How do they know...?"

Ceridwen looked grim. "Rhiannon is with them." She glanced at her daughter, who had turned visibly pale.

"Rhiannon? Who is..." Cadfael began, but Gwendolyn shook her head.

"A friend. Well, she _was _a friend. No time to explain - we must go."

The two youngsters came up first, soon followed by Cadfael. The guards were losing patience and thumping at the door, and soon they would probably smash it open. Gwendolyn led them to the same back door Hugh had used to leave, and through the backyard. Soon, they found themselves in a narrow alley, and Gwendolyn turned right. She was running swiftly, and Cadfael followed as well as he could, but his muscles reminded him painfully that he was no longer twenty. He wished Dewydd and the girl would slow down a little, but he also knew the guards might be running after them, so he kept going.

Soon enough, shouts behind them told the three fugitives that the guards had indeed found the back door and were coming after them. Fortunately, the night had fallen and both Dewydd and Gwendolyn knew their surroundings very well. Without them, Cadfael might have got lost easily, but they found their way without any hesitation.

The monk did not know how long they ran thus through the smaller streets of the town, but it felt like forever. Breathing hard, he managed to keep up with the two young ones, although his dignity suffered a little in the process. At some point, Dewydd took his hand to help him run faster and, at last, the shouts began to fade away into the night. The fugitives stopped for a few seconds to catch their breath, feeling a bit safer.

"Where... are we?" Cadfael panted.

"That's the street of the weavers," Dewydd informed him.

"We can hide in one of their warehouses," Gwendolyn added. Cadfael noticed with faint envy that she seemed to be recovering much faster than himself or Dewydd. "And the wool will keep us warm."

Indeed, although their running had warmed them up, it was still the end of December, and the night was biting cold. Cadfael followed his two companions up the street; they stopped in front of a building which was probably the aforementioned warehouse, and with practiced ease Gwendolyn managed to open the window shutters.

"It's not the first time you do that," Cadfael realized.

She shrugged. "Well, no. We used to come here when we were children, to play in the wool. That shutter does not close correctly, but we are the only ones who know about it."

The girl edged her way inside the building, and opened the door from the inside to let her two companions enter. Bundles of dirty grey wool that had not yet been cleaned were piled up to the roof. Apart from that, there was nothing else there. When Dewydd closed the door behind them, with no source of light left, the three fugitives found themselves in pitch-black darkness.

"We can't light anything," Gwendolyn explained. "Because of the wool. Not to mention, our pursuers might see the light."

"Well, we should just wait until..." Cadfael did not have time to finish his sentence, for a creaking sound interrupted him.

From what he had seen, there were only two ways to get inside this warehouse. Either to open it from the inside, as Gwendolyn had done, or with a key. And the newcomer obviously had a key.

In dismay, they waited for the door to open - there was nothing else they could do. There was not even enough time for them to hide in the wool. A man entered, with a lantern, followed by two lads, and he let out a cry of triumph when he saw the trio he had found.

"Hah! I thought I had heard some noise," he said in Welsh with a grin. "Well, sorry, laddies, but you're not going to steal my wool tonight!"

He had obviously mistaken Gwendolyn for a boy, which was understandable given her attire, and his lips curled slightly with contempt when he saw Cadfael.

"And a wretch who disguises himself as a monk - unless you truly are one, in which case you are a disgrace to the Church. But we'll let the guards of the Watch decide that for you. Fychan, fetch them."

One of the two youngsters who accompanied him nodded and left swiftly.

"Listen, you're making a mistake," Dewydd protested. "We don't want to steal your wool!"

Cadfael knew it was useless, but said nothing. The weaver who had captured them snorted in derision. "Sure, that's right. You were just visiting," he sneered.

"But..." Dewydd insisted, but Gwendolyn elbowed him.

"Oh, just shut up," she snarled. He glared at her sulkily but complied.

It did not take long for Fychan to come back with several guards, who, judging from their dishevelled state, were obviously the ones who had been running after the three fugitives in the first place. Running from them had been utterly useless, in the end. The one who appeared to be a sergeant grinned when he spotted his prey.

"Thank you, Master Kynon," he said to the weaver. "We have been trying to capture them tonight, but they escaped. Your help will not be forgotten."

Kynon straightened in pride. "Please, Sergeant Meilyg, I was only doing my duty."

Then the sergeant turned toward his catch. "You made us run quite a bit, you scoundrels, but he who laughs last laughs best. Come on, now!" He glanced at his men. "Bind their wrists."

A few minutes later, Dewydd, Cadfael and Gwendolyn were properly bound and closely flanked by Meilyg's men. After a short exchange of pleasantries between the sergeant and the weaver, the prisoners were taken out to the streets. They did not have to walk long, however; five minutes later, they came face to face with two dozens of men mounted on horses. Their leader turned to face them, and Cadfael recognized him immediately. It was Cadwaladr.


	16. Death Warrant

**Chapter 16**

* * *

Owain entered the hall of his castle and tramped forward, silently seething, his face dark and furious. A servant carrying a tray hastily jumped aside to let his lord walk past, bowing respectfully as he did so. Owain did not usually mistreat his servants, and he was not a violent man; quite the contrary, actually. But he did have a bit of a temper, and although it was much more controlled than his brother's, everyone knew better than to get on his bad side when he was in a dark mood. And at this very moment, he was not a happy man.

Then again, he had little reason to be joyful. Not only had both his prisoners escaped, but also he had spent the whole day on horseback, all for nothing. No one seemed to have seen the two men, neither in town, nor on the road. They had just... vanished, and Owain was starting to wonder if Cadwaladr was not right when he had said they might have headed south, since they knew he would look for them in the north. But, for crying out loud, a Benedictine monk and a wounded English lord did not escape notice! Someone, anyone should have seen them. Usually, Owain would have just given up looking for his prisoners, at this point; but they were, or at least Hugh Beringar was, the only way he had of getting Dewydd back. Granted, the boy had been stupid to let himself be caught, but he was still kin, and Owain did care for him.

The thought of his cousin rotting in an English prison brought Owain's bad temper to its peak, and he stamped into his quarters angrily, glad to be alone at last. He unfastened his cloak and his belt, leaving the first on his bed and laying the second on the table with his sword and purse. Outside, dusk was falling; he had given up the chase only when it had become obviously too dark to find the tracks, and the rough ride left him exhausted. But the pursuit would resume at dawn, and sooner or later Owain would find these escaped prisoners. After all, Beringar had seemed weakened and would have slowed the monk down, so they both had to be still in the vicinity, for this man Cadfael had not seemed like someone who would ever abandon a friend in distress.

Heaving a sigh of weariness, the Welsh prince sat down in a chair and poured himself some wine. He was too tired to attend a formal dinner, so he would just ask a servant to bring him something to eat. In the meantime...

"Hem. I don't mean to be rude, but..."

Startled by the voice Owain about-turned, nearly spilling his wine over in the process. In a corner of his chamber, hidden in the darkness, he could make out the trim figure of a man. He had not noticed him before, because when he had entered the room he had hardly paid any attention to his surroundings, too focused on his disgruntled thoughts, and he cursed himself for such carelessness on his part. But his sword was still on the table, and he grabbed it immediately, feeling better when he found the familiar handle under his fingers.

"Who are you?" he demanded. How could this man dare invite himself just like that into a prince's bedroom!

No answer came, but the intruder walked slowly forward, and when he came closer to the window, Owain managed to see his features. At first, he frowned in puzzlement, for he did not recognize him, but after a few seconds he remembered the man he had seen days ago, lying in pain on the dry and brittle straw of his gaol. _The English lord!_

Nonplussed, the Welsh prince hesitated slightly. He could have called for his guards, but he just did not understand the situation, and he did not like it when he did not understand something - it made him feel like a half-wit. "Why?" he murmured, in the other man's language.

"I wish to request an audience with you, my lord," the Englishman replied formally with a slight bow.

An audience. Had Owain not been so taken aback, he would have considered it amusing. His curiosity got the better of him and with an impatient wave of his hand, he motioned for his uninvited guest to speak.

"I am here on behalf of Dewydd ap Goronwy," Beringar resumed. "Your cousin."

"I know who Dewydd is," Owain snapped. "And I don't find that funny. Next time, pick your lies better - he is in an English cell!"

"He is not," the Englishman said quietly, unfazed. "I spoke with him this morning. As proof of my good faith, I have brought this ring. Dewydd himself gave it to me."

He held out a jewel, which glittered in the flickering light of the candle on the table. After a brief hesitation, Owain took it and brought it closer to the flame to see it better, keeping a prudent eye on his guest the whole time. His heart leapt in his chest as he recognized the ring and its blue stone, without a shade of doubt; he had given it to Dewydd himself, when the boy had become old enough to be considered a man, less than a year ago. The Welsh prince did not give the ring back to Beringar, but considered him more amiably, as he seemed to have been telling the truth. Now, he had so many questions that he had to think about it for a moment before he picked one.

"Why has Dewydd not come himself?"

Beringar's features became grave. "He deemed he had reasons to fear for his life." A shrug. "I can't tell whether his apprehension is justified or not."

Owain cast him a disbelieving glance. "That's ludicrous. No one here would seek to harm my cousin!"

Beringar leant back against the wall. "Not even your brother?"

"My brother?" the Welsh prince repeated stiffly.

Casually waving a hand, the Englishman glanced at him. "According to Dewydd, it was Cadwaladr's fault - and his escort's, which Cadwaladr had picked - that he was captured. If he was recognized before he came to you, he thought your brother might try to get rid of him."

Owain shook his head. That was a little too much to accept, especially after the day he had had. Of course, he had known there were some tensions between his brother and his cousin, but so much so? It was hard to believe that even Cadwaladr would sell a kinsman for personal gain. Or was it? Now that he was thinking about it again, Owain remembered a few things. Small details to which he had never really paid attention, the way Cadwaladr sometimes looked daggers at his cousin, with that murderous gleam in his dark eyes... Until now, Owain had always taken it as a jest. But Dewydd was level-headed. He would not accuse anyone thus without a good reason, would he?

"Why would you help my cousin?" he eventually asked, half to gain time and half because he was genuinely interested in the answer.

There was a slight hesitation before Beringar answered - as though he was not sure himself. "He is... I suppose I could call him a friend. And I owe him."

"What do you owe him?" Owain insisted, truly curious now.

His guest gave him a small smile. "Who do you think helped us get out of our cell?"

The Welsh prince stared at him, then snorted. On second thought, it did sound like something his young and rash cousin would do.

"There is still quite some explaining to do," he finally said, "but that can wait. For now, take me where Dewydd is."

With some difficulty, Beringar pushed himself from the wall, and then only did Owain notice that he was a little pale. Yes, the man was injured if he remembered correctly. But a mean voice in the back of his mind told him to let the English lord suffer - after all, he was the reason why Owain had suffered through a day on horseback, all for nothing, so that served him right.

Sheathing his sword at last, the Welsh prince fastened his cloak around his neck and his belt around his waist. He had not even had the time to remove his boots, but if he had, he was not certain he would have had the courage to put them back on. He strode out of his chamber, followed by the Englishman, and walked straight to the courtyard, pointedly ignoring the stares that targeted him and Beringar. No one had expected him to leave his castle with the very man he had been chasing all day, but Owain did not intend to waste time on explanations. Besides, that way he could amuse himself listening to all the ridiculous gossip that it would no doubt trigger.

Owain did not bother to ask for an escort - he had nothing to fear in his own town. He did however ask for two horses, including Beringar's grey stallion. Judging from the marks of teeth on the stable lad's shoulder, the animal had a bit of a temper, but for some reason it remained very quiet when its master mounted it. As for Owain, he mounted one of his favourite horses, a white mare, very gentle and with an even pace that made her very comfortable to ride.

"Well, show me the way," he ordered the Englishman.

Not taking offence at his relative abruptness, Beringar nodded and took the lead. It would soon be nighttime, and already the first stars shone in the sky, through the grey clouds that covered half of it. There were few people still in the streets at this time, especially in such bitingly cold weather, so Owain urged his horse to a trot. The Englishman cast him a wry glance as Owain came abreast, but he pushed his stallion as well.

At this rate, it did not take them long to reach their destination. Beringar pulled on his reigns in front of an inn, which Owain recognized easily; he had helped Ceridwen buy it in reward for her long and loyal service. He allowed himself a thin smile; he should have known Dewydd would have asked the help of his old nurse. However, the Welsh prince soon realized something was wrong; the door was half open, and there did not seem to be anyone inside. Sharing a frown with Beringar, he dismounted and entered. The common room was plunged in the dark and seemed to be a mess, but a faint light shone through the door that led to the kitchen and muffled sobs could be heard. Owain made his way through the room, nearly tripping over a table knocked over to the ground, then entered the kitchen.

Ceridwen was seated near a single candle, her face hidden in her hands, crying quietly, tears running down her cheeks. When she raised her disheveled head, Owain saw her eyes were shot red with blood, contrasting with her pallor.

"My lord!" she stumbled to her feet, bowing her head, but the prince came to her side and gently pushed her back on her chair. He would get no information from her if she was too upset.

Aware of Beringar's presence at the door, Owain ignored him, focusing all his attention on the desperate woman who was facing him. "Now," he said softly, "tell me what happened."

She nodded, mechanically twisting the fabric of her dress in her shaky fingers, not questioning Owain's presence nor his orders. "It was this evening, a-after Lord Beringar l-left," she stuttered. "guards came. Rhiannon was with them..."

"Rhiannon?" Owain repeated questioningly.

"She's the daughter of our neighbours," Ceridwen explained, her voice more steady now that she was able to tell her story. "She is... was... Gwendolyn's friend. But they gave her money and she told them Dewydd was hiding here..."

"And?" the prince insisted.

"I just had the time to... to warn Dewydd and the monk, Brother Cadfael. Th-they fled through the back door, but the guards ran after them..."

"Do you know if they were caught?" By now, Owain's voice was steely, but his wrath was not directed at Ceridwen.

"Yes," she sniffled. "A neighbour told me he had seen them be taken by the guards..."

"And _no one_ told me about this," the Welsh prince hissed in fury, truly irate now.

Ceridwen lowered her head in shame. "You... you were not in town, my lord, and... I..."

He raised a hand to interrupt her. "Never mind that for now. The guards you spoke of, they were of the watch?"

"Yes," she nodded, biting her lips.

Owain stood up, not bothering with good manners and walked out, still followed by Beringar. As he stepped into the street, he took in a deep breath, trying to soothe his rage. The cool wind that pierced his clothes mercilessly helped him gather his wits. No one was able to think rationally when angry, and right now he needed to think quickly if he wanted to find Dewydd in time.

"What did she say?" the Englishman asked from behind him. "What happened to your cousin and my friend?"

Indeed, they had spoken Welsh, so he had probably not understood a word. Owain wondered how the man had managed to slip inside the castle with such a poor grasp of the local language, but his curiosity could wait.

"Dewydd and your monk friend were taken by guards of the watch," he summed up briefly.

Beringar raised an eyebrow. "Is that not a good thing? You can order the captain of the watch to release them."

"Perhaps," the prince replied grimly. "But the watch consists mainly of men loyal to Cadwaladr. I didn't care, because that never mattered before - I never thought my brother would..." Unable to say it out loud, Owain pursed his lips, and thankfully Beringar did not push the matter.

"So, wherever Cadwaladr is, we will find Dewydd and Cadfael?" the Englishman concluded.

Owain clenched his fingers on the reins of his mare. "I don't want to believe these suspicions about Cadwaladr," he murmured. "Yet I can't understand why he did not tell me about his men finding Dewydd. We need to find my brother, and then I will give him a chance to explain."

"All right," Beringar nodded, although Owain was not really asking for his opinion.

By mutual consent, they climbed in their saddles and rode back to the castle, as quickly as possible. Throwing all caution and measure to the wind, they pushed their horses to a gallop up the main street, the hooves clattering on the uneven cobblestones. Only because the streets were nearly deserted was there no accident, but even if there had been one, Owain might not have stopped. As they entered the courtyard, he pulled violently on the reins, and the white mare came to a stop with a neigh of indignant protest, but, paying her no heed, Owain came down and caught the first servant he saw by the arm.

"You!" he barked. "Where is my brother?"

Taken aback and somewhat frightened, the servant opened and closed his mouth without uttering a sound.

"My lord, is there a problem?" Someone came from the stables, and Owain recognized his captain of the guards. He had probably been overlooking the discharge of the men and horse who had joined in the search. The prince let go of the servant's arm, to his relief, turning instead to face the captain.

"Wren, have you seen my brother?"

The officer looked a bit surprised. "Well, yes. Two hours ago."

"Where is he?" Owain asked impatiently.

"Not here."

The prince glared at his ever sohelpful captain. "Thank you for stating the obvious, Wren," he commented scathingly, and the man winced.

"I do not know where he is exactly," Wren explained apologetically, "but he said he was going to the south, to look for Lord Dewydd."

Owain raised an eyebrow, bitterly sarcastic. "Looking for him in the dark?"

"That's what I told him," the captain shrugged. "But he said he didn't want to waste a moment and that he feared for the boy's safety. I didn't question him."

"Of course not," Owain sighed, somewhat resigned. "We are going after him, Wren."

"Uh?" the captain scratched his head and glanced for the first time at Beringar, who had wisely remained silent so far. Then again, since he did not speak Welsh... "Why are we going after him? If I may ask, my lord?"

"You may not," the prince replied. "Not yet, at any rate," he added through his teeth. "How many men did Cadwaladr take with him?"

"About two dozens, I think," Wren answered, looking strangely at his lord, but Owain gave no explanation.

"Then take twice as many."

"As you wish, my lord," the captain nodded, then hesitated. "But I have to remind you the men and horses are weary after today's ride."

"I know," Owain growled, glaring at Beringar as though it was his fault they had been chasing him in vain all day. After all, it _was _his fault. To some extent. But the Englishman gave him only an even stare in return, to the prince's irritation. Could he not at least look frightened or contrite?

Wren left swiftly to carry out his orders, and Beringar came a little closer to Owain.

"So?" he asked. "Where is your brother?"

Owain found it somewhat annoying to repeat everything for the Englishman's sake, but it was probably even worse for Beringar, so he complied and repeated quickly what had been said.

"They are two hours ahead of us then," Beringar concluded thoughtfully. "It might not be easy to catch up with them in the dark. Not that I think we shouldn't."

"As long as we know where they're going..." Owain shrugged, then eyed his newfound ally critically. Was it an illusion, or was he paler than before? "Are you certain you should be riding? You have done what you had to. I can take care of the rest."

But the Englishman shook his head with a smile. "Don't forget my friends' life is at stake too. I'm coming." And everything in his stance screamed that he would go whether Owain agreed or not. Grudgingly, the prince had to grant him some respect for his stubbornness.

About a half hour later, Wren had gathered the men and horses, and they were good to go. Owain would not wait any longer than necessary, and gave the signal for their departure. Thus, their long ride began; determined to catch up with his brother and to have an answer to his questions, the Welsh prince did not allow a single stop along the way, although nearly all the horses were as weary as the men and some stumbled from exhaustion. None of that mattered to him. He had to know for sure, whether his own brother would betray a kinsman so shamefully. After a little while, it began to snow again, and the horses' hooves sank into the fresh snow, turning it to mud as they trampled on it, so that Owain's white mare soon found herself with black socks. Silvery moonbeams made the scene almost surreal, and no sound could be heard but the panting of the horses, the clatter of the bridles and the frantic hoof beats.

Time became a vague notion, but after a while the troop fell on fresh tracks. The path became even muddier, if that was possible, but Owain led them at an even faster pace, for he now knew his brother was close.

* * *

_I am too old for this_, Cadfael thought again, although he did not really believe it. His hands had been bound in front of him in the most uncomfortable way, and another rider held the reins of his horse. He glanced at his two young companions, who were roughly in the same situation as he; they were both afraid, but too proud to show it. Gwendolyn showed a strength that amazed the monk. Many women in this situation would have had a crying fit, but the girl clenched her teeth and said nothing. In a way, she reminded him of Aline. Dewydd was pale but just as brave and determined, and betrayed none of his emotions.

Looking farther ahead, Cadfael wondered how much longer they would keep riding. It had been at hours since they had left the town, so what did Cadwaladr have in mind? If he wished them harm, then why take them so far? He could have killed them just as easily an hour ago... then, the answer presented herself to the monk; Cadwaladr probably wanted to blame their death on the Englishmen, so he was going to take them beyond the border. Yes, that made sense. Cadfael could easily imagine what he would tell his brother. '_I arrived too late, they had already been killed. But I swear I will avenge our cousin...' _Cadwaladr would win on all the fronts; not only would he be rid of a cumbersome cousin, but he would also have a good excuse to resume his raids. Cadfael and Gwendolyn would be killed as well, because as witnesses they were too dangerous and Cadwaladr could not afford to let them on the loose.

Grimly, the monk tried to think of a way out, but none came to mind. Owain had left for the north, according to Gwendolyn. There was no telling when he would come back, and Hugh... it was possible he had been arrested. Cadfael wished he could at least know what had become of his friend, but at this point Hugh was probably safer than he himself.

Perhaps this was his penance for his doubts. Did that mean he should not try to fight it, accept it as his fate?

But all his being revolted against such a concept. If this was God's will, then nothing he could do would change it, so why should he not try and fight to his last breath?

In any case, it could not be a bad thing for him to chant a few psalms in his head.

However, he had hardly begun when the whole troop came to a stop. Cadfael knew that it could not be a good sign; if they stopped now, it meant Cadwaladr deemed they were far enough. In other words, it was a matter of minutes now before they were all killed. With a sigh, the monk obeyed when he was ordered to dismount, and his feet sank in the muddy, half-melted snow. There was little point in refusing, when he was bound and weaponless, and badly outnumbered. Dewydd did not follow his lead, though; but his wild kicks earned him nothing but a blow on the face and a few insults. Gwendolyn, at last, remained silent and dignified, as much as it was possible with her hands bound and her hair disheveled.

They were brought in front of Cadwaladr, who had dismounted as well, and he looked at them haughtily, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. And why should he not smile? Everything was going in his favour.

"I think it is time for the good Brother to say a last prayer and give you the extreme unction," he said sweetly.

"I am not a priest," Cadfael replied defiantly. "I cannot do that."

"Too bad," Cadwaladr shrugged. "Then I'm afraid you will have to be buried in unconsecrated ground."

Cadfael said nothing. He felt a little numb, unable to decide whether that frightened him or not, but the Welsh lord did not wait for an answer to draw his sword. The monk looked at him and stared at his own death, silently and with as much dignity as he could muster. In the end, no matter what, a man was on his own.

"So," their executioner said perkily. "Who is going to be first?"

So be it, then. Cadfael briefly closed his eyes, praying to keep his courage to the end. And he stepped forward.

"A volunteer! Good!" Cadwaladr exclaimed, sounding delighted.

"Wait!" Dewydd shouted in indignation. "You don't need to..."

"Silence him," the Welsh lord sighed, motioning to one of his men. "This boy is getting on my nerves."

One of his soldiers hit Dewydd on the head. The boy's face was already puffy and red, and although it did not seem to break him he did fall silent, conscious that he could change nothing, and glared at his cousin, a flame of rage and hatred gleaming in his eyes. But at this moment, another of the riders glanced behind and frowned.

"My lord," he said respectfully, "don't you hear anything?"

"What?" Cadwaladr's exasperation at being interrupted was almost tangible. "No, of course not. There is nothing to..."

He trailed off and began to listen as well. Cadfael frowned; there was definitely a soft rumble, growing louder and louder. It sounded almost like... horses? If that was the case, they were coming closer very fast. Confused and annoyed, Cadwaladr was obviously perplexed as to what he should do. He half raised his sword, then lowered it again, unable to decide whether he should get rid of his three prisoners as quickly as possible, or wait and see.

Cadfael could see the newcomers, now. At their lead, he made out two horses, one grey and another, white, that looked almost like a ghost in the dim light of the moon. The monk heard some of the men mutter a prayer, and he had to admit it was frightening to observe these riders rush at them, as though then would not stop and trample them. But he was not so much afraid as glad to see them, for he had recognized the grey stallion, even at that distance, and he knew who rode it. Relief swept through his body, and he could not help but heave a sigh. Perhaps he did not have to fear God's wrath, in the end... Some of Cadwaladr's men unsheathed their weapons half-heartedly, but their lord stopped them with an angry hiss.

A few minutes later, the troop stopped near Cadwaladr and his men, and in the saddle of the white mare, Cadfael recognized Owain, and he did not miss the pain and bitterness that twisted the prince's features when he looked down at his brother. It was the look of a man betrayed by his own kin. Cadwaladr had lost all his haughtiness, and Cadfael had a feeling that, in spite of everything, they both loved each other dearly. Or had loved?

"Brother..." Owain began, then stopped. He glanced at Dewydd, and his features hardened in anger.

"I..." Cadwaladr trailed off. Had he been about to explain? But what was there to explain? The betrayal was there, blatant, impossible to hide or to lessen. It was too late to change anything, and perhaps even to fix it.

Hugh dismounted and, unsheathing the dagger Dewydd had given him, cut the rope that bound his friend's wrists. With relief, Cadfael felt a tingle in his fingers as the blood began to flow again. Meanwhile, Hugh freed the two youngsters. Now that they were saved, paradoxically, Gwendolyn began to cry soundlessly, and Cadfael offered her a comforting hand, which she took without hesitation.

"I'm glad to see we arrived in time," Hugh said in a low voice. "For a moment, I thought..." he shook his head, and although his features betrayed little, Cadfael knew him well enough to realize how much he had been worried. The monk offered his friend a smile.

"Obviously, God has decided our time down here is not finished yet," he replied softly, the sentence carrying a double meaning only he could understand. Beringar cast him a weird glance but did not comment.

In the meantime, Dewydd had walked to his cousin and he stood straight in front of Owain, before waving an accusing finger in the direction of Cadwaladr.

"He tried to kill me!"

Owain suddenly appeared older than he really was, and more weary. "I know," he replied simply. He glanced again at his brother, then averted his eyes. "I know..."

"What are you talking about!?" Cadwaladr protested weakly. "I would never have..."

"Please, Lord Cadwaladr," Owain cut him, his voice icy this time. No one failed to notice the use of his brother's title and the formality of his words. "Don't take me for a fool, on top of all."

Cadwaladr fell silent, looking at his brother in despair. There was nothing more to add.

"Let's head back," the prince finally said. "This is finished, Cadwaladr."

This time, the other man did not try to justify himself. No one dared to talk, aware of the intensity of the confrontation between the two brothers. Cadwaladr was defeated, without having even tried to fight back. Against any other man, he would probably have struggled to his last breath; but he was powerless in front of his brother, his prince, his liege.

"Yes," Cadfael murmured for himself. "This is finished, and now we can head back home."

Hugh grinned at him. "If we hurry, we can be back for New Year's Eve. How about that?"

The monk smiled back. All he wanted now was to return to the safety of his abbey, and perhaps try to find himself. With the help of his very own little Welsh saint.


	17. Epilogue

_**Epilogue**  
_

* * *

_Two weeks later_

Cadfael was keeping an eye on one of his remedies that was boiling in its cauldron, when he heard the crunching of footsteps on the gravel path that led to his workshop. However, he could not afford to leave his mixture without supervision, so he did not turn when the door opened, nor did he react to the sound of heavy boots treading on the wooden floor. The newcomer stopped just behind the monk.

"It's nice to see you back, Hugh," Cadfael said.

There was a silence, and he could picture his friend raising an eyebrow, although he could not see him. "How did you know it was me?" Beringar eventually asked. "No one told you I was coming, did they?"

Hearing the suspicion in Hugh's voice, the monk hid a smile. "No, but the brethren don't wear boots", he explained as he removed his mixture from the fire. Now, he just needed to stir it until it cooled down. "Careful," he warned, "that's boiling hot."

Hugh moved back and Cadfael set the cauldron on his workbench. Then they both sat, and the monk poured them some wine. His friend sipped happily from his glass, thirsty after his long ride. He had obviously not been home yet, for he still moved stiffly and his clothes were dusty.

"Things were quiet during my absence, according to Father Radulfus," Beringar commented absent-mindedly. "What is that smelly concoction for?"

Cadfael raised an eyebrow. "Why, it's for you. Works wonders for impertinence, young man."

If he had expected his friend to assume a guilty look, he would have been disappointed; all he got was a grin.

"Then you should save some for the King's court. Some of these lords I would gladly throttle."

"So, how did your audience with the King go?" Cadfael asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Hugh shrugged. "Better than expected, actually. I half-expected to be thrown in the dungeons for not meeting Stephen's expectations, but he seemed pleased."

"Pleased? Why?" questioned Cadfael, surprised.

"We didn't bring back the information he wanted, but our mission was not totally fruitless. By the way, I got news from Dewydd."

"How so?"

"Owain sent an emissary to Stephen. It seems our Welsh prince did not appreciate Gloucester's attempt to blackmail him. He offered the King to back him up if there was fighting near his borders. He won't ride too far away from Wales, but in any case, he still makes a very powerful ally. The emissary mentioned both our names, he wanted to thank us again on Owain's behalf."

"And what did he say about Dewydd?" insisted Cadfael, who cared little for thanks - even princely ones.

A smile played on Hugh's lips. "Impatient, aren't you?" He was answered with a glare. "He is well, and he wants to marry Gwendolyn."

Cadfael snorted but said nothing, and his friend seemed disappointed at his lack of reaction.

"What, don't tell me you expected that, too?"

"Actually, I did," the monk smirked. "Didn't you see how they looked at each other?"

Hugh shrugged. "It seemed to me more like a fraternal relationship. I guess you can see that kind of things better than me... Brother."

Cadfael harrumphed in answer. "Of course I do. I am twice your age."

His friend chuckled, then rose to his feet. "Well, I don't mean to be rude, but all I wish for right now is a bath and a bed. Do come over sometime soon, though. Giles doesn't see enough of his godfather, and I think Aline misses you, too."

"I'll ask the Abbot", the monk promised as he accompanied Hugh to the door. "I'm glad you took the time to come by, although I suspect it was more for my wine than for me."

"For both, Brother", Beringar corrected him with a smile. "For both."

Cadfael gazed for a few seconds at the retreating back of his friend, then got back inside the workshop. His mixture had now cooled down enough for him to bottle it. It had been two weeks since Cadwaladr had been stopped, and over ten days since he had been back at the Abbey, and he still did not have the answer he was looking for. But for now, he was happy enough in the shelter of his workshop, in the peace of the abbey. After all, what more could he ask for?


End file.
